Blood on Stone: The Fourth Quarter Quell
by FireBird128
Summary: "For the 4th Quarter Quell, as reminder that the death rates of children in the districts quadrupled after the rebellion, each district will be required to send in four times the usual tributes, from ages 5 to 18." Set in the ruins of a city, with 96 tributes, this year is sure to be good. I don't own the Hunger Games.
1. Introduction

There was once a land called North America. But it was ravaged by floods, fires, tornados. War broke out as the survivors fought for the few resources that remained. But from the desolation rose Panem, a nation composed of a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen Districts. For many years, the people flourished and the nation prospered.

But then came the uprising that rocked the nation. The thirteen Districts rebelled against the Capitol. This was the Dark Days. Many died, and many more lives were ruined.

But then came the peace. Twelve districts were defeated, the thirteenth supposedly obliterated.

To ensure that Panem never know this treason again, the Capitol designed a competition for the districts. Each would be required to send in one female and one male tribute to compete in the annual Hunger Games. The tributes would fight until there was one left standing.

The lone victor would be a reminder of the Capitol's generosity and forgiveness.

Seventy-four years passed smoothly. But in the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, lovers Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark from District Twelve entered. They defeated the odds, and were the last two standing. They refused to let one of them die, to kill the other. Instead, they threatened to eat the poisonous nightlock berries if the Capitol would not allow for two victors to be crowned.

The Capitol accepted, and the two lovers were taken from the arena, both as victors. In the other districts, the victors' stunt with the berries had made deep impressions. There were riots, and hints of a second rebellion. It was revealed the Thirteen had not been obliterated, but had merely been hibernating for the better half of the century.

The next summer was the third Quarter Quell, in which the tributes would be reaped from the pool of existing victors. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark once again entered the arena.

On the third day of the Games, the rebels of District Thirteen attempted to retrieve the remaining tributes from the arena. But before they could succeed, the Gamemakers were quick to destroy the rebel hovercraft. President Snow decided it was time to end the rebellion while it was possible.

So, Katniss Everdeen, the flame of the rebellion, was taken from the arena. Her public execution was mandatory viewing, and was even broadcasted onto the sky of the arena. After the viewing, Capitol bombers flew over District Twelve, and obliterated the district. This, too, was broadcasted live, even in the arena. Unfortunately, though, several of the district's people escaped into the wilderness, and are believed to have taken refugee in Thirteen.

Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen's accomplice, seemed to lose the will to live. He died the next day, killed by Enobaria, the District Two female tribute, who was the final winner of the Quell.

The Mockingjay Rebellion was put down, and the peace of the nation resumed. The traitors of the Capitol were exterminated along with the rebels in the districts. The citizens of Thirteen who had not been actively involved in the rebellion were transported to the remains of District Twelve, where the district was rebuilt. The Hunger Games continued, but the nation was scarred.

And now comes the fourth Quarter Quell. What will happen?

* * *

This is the day. Excitement hovers around the Gamemakers. Today is the day the head, Teylin Ravine, will reveal her decision about the arena for the fourth Quarter Quell. They mutter excitedly to one another. What will she choose? The forest? The underwater arena? The treetops?

The door slams shut, and all of the Gamemakers turn at once.

It's Teylin. She has blue eyes and hair that everyone knows she died blond. She's one of the oldest and longest serving Head Gamemakers - she has served has Head Gamemaker since the 76th Hunger Games, and the 71st Games before that.

"Nice to see you all out and about," she says icily. "I have come to a decision. Of course you all know this, though. You've been waiting for quite a while, I know."

No one argues.

Teylin goes over to the white table in the middle of the room. She takes a scroll out of her cloak, and lays it down.

"The fourth Quarter Quell," she announces, "will take place in the ruins of a city."

The Gamemakers gasp and mutter to each other. The ruins! She chose the ruins! Ooh, they'll have so many tricks! And with ninety-six tributes, even better!

Only Gamemakers and the president knew about the Quell twist beforehand. They needed to, to design the arena accordingly.

"Here is the map. My plan."

The Gamemakers huddle around the table. Teylin steps back and lets them gawk and admire her plan.

"The Cornucopia will be set in the main square," Teylin explains. "It's near a fountain. And our crew will make some...adjustments to this city. There will be some obstacles, to make the Games more interesting. Around the arena, at the borders, we have placed an impenetrable wall. A force field. But the arena is big. Very big. With ninety-six tributes, it is a necessity."

* * *

The little boy in the white suit brings up the box. President Peak takes out the slip marked "100". The audience waits in excitement and tension. He opens it, and clears his throat.

"For the 4th Quarter Quell, as reminder that the death rates of children in the districts quadrupled after the rebellion, each district will be required to send in four times the usual tributes, from ages 5 to 18."

Four times as many tributes? That's ninety-six tributes! And ages five to eighteen? Even better!

The crowd screams with delight. Ninety six tributes! Ages five to eighteen!

President Peak thanks the boy, and then ushers him away.

President Peak turns to the crowd. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

The crowd cheers so loudly at these historical, time worn words, that the sound would likely resound in their ears for a while after.

The cameras show images of bizarre looking Capitol citizens, standing, cheering, yelling, looking more excited than ever before. They don't show much of the districts, but they do provide a few scattered images: a sobbing child, a woman looking forlornly at the screen, a father comforting his son. Misery is abundant in every district shot.

President Peak leaves the stage, and the curtains sweep closed dramatically.

The commentators chatter in excitement, trying to guess what challenges lie in store for this year's tributes. They try to guess what the arena will be. A forest? A grassland? An ocean?

One commentator predicts that the arena will be strange and exotic, unlike anything we've seen before. The other thinks it will be a normal arena, but full of more challenges than in any other arena.

But they have to wait another six months before finding out.

* * *

**A/N: ****Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**


	2. District 1 Reaping

**A/N: So, I had all the tributes, so I decided to do the District One Reapings, even though I'm not done with my other story yet.**

* * *

_District 1: Tiger Lee's POV:_

"Hey, Tiger, what do you say we get some cake _early_?" my best friend, John, asks me. "The bakery cakes are the _best_."

"Bakery cakes?" My eyes widen at the thought of the delicious, sweet pastries I haven't had since my birthday. I only get them twice a year - once on reaping day, once on my birthday. "Oh, man, that's tempting."

"I've done it before," John continues. "Last year, when the money was low, I stole a lemon cake. It's not very well guarded." He smiles mischievously. "Aren't you hungry, Tiger? For sweet cake?"

"Sweet cake," I repeat. "You bet I'm hungry. Those pastries are delicious."

John grins. "So, you go up and start questioning them about the prices and flavors, that stuff, and I'll snatch a cake. Sound good?"

I start to nod, then stop. "You sure we can pull this off? I've never stolen from a store before. Only from Lion. Don't tattle!" If my brother ever finds out I've stolen from him, I'll be in for it.

"Of course we can do it," John says. "Just question them, and make sure they don't notice that I'm taking the cake."

.

Several minutes later, we're standing in front of the bakery. I take a breath, then step in, John right behind me.

I go over to the pink decorated cupcakes on the end. The shop owner turns to greet me.

"Miss," I say politely, "what flavor are these pink ones?"

She frowns. "Strawberry, I think. Right?" She turns around, checks a book open on the table, and turns back. "Yep, strawberry."

"Are they good?" I ask.

"Very," she says. "Are you buying?"

"Uh, how much are they?"

She jabs her finger at the tag in front of the row. Where, I realize, it says they're strawberry. Oh, well. "It says it _right there_. Can't you read?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, I can, I just didn't see."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see John slipping behind the counter, reaching into the glass...

I snap my head forward again. "What about these cookies?"

"Read the label," she says irritably. "And if you're not buying - hey, what - " She swivels around, and looks at John. John is on my side of the counter, but just barely. "Did you come to this side?" she demands. "Did you take something? You - you did! You little thief! You took something, didn't you!"

John yelps. "I - I didn't! I would never - I'm only ten, ma'am, I'm not a thief, I wouldn't - "

"Little brat! I don't care if you're ten, or two, or thirty! _No one_ steals my food!"

"I swear, ma'am, I didn't take anything!" John cries.

"Show me your hands!" she yells. Reluctantly, John pulled his hands from his pockets. They're empty. _He must have put it in his pocket_, I think.

The owner growls. "Get out of here! Leave my store at once, _thief_!"

I sprint out of the store, John at my heels. We run until we're both out of breath, then stop, panting. We look at each other. Awkward silence. Then I speak.

"We should do something to make up for it. Like, give her flowers or something."

John stares at me. "Are you crazy? Give her _flowers_?"

I swallow. "Maybe she'll forget about us stealing."

John shakes his head. "You _are_ crazy."

I bend into a flowerbed at the side of the road and pick a few roses. I pluck them from the bed, barely noticing the door in front slamming open, and a tall man stepping out. And staring at me.

But of course I heard the voice. Him yelling. Him yelling at me. "What - _hey_! What are you doing? Those are _mine_, kid! Get your dirty fingers out of _my_ flowerbed!"

I back up, startled. I hear John's feet pattering away. I turn on my heel and follow him.

Behind me, the man continues yelling. "That's right! Clear out! _Never_ touch my flowers again! If you do..." His voice fades as I turn the corner.

John and I stop, panting. "A lot of good _that_ did," John remarks. "And all for nothing. You dropped the flowers."

"I did not..." I look down. My hands are empty. I groan. "Well, I tried."

John glances down at his wrist. "I'd better be getting home now," he says. "Happy Hunger Games."

He walks away, and I head home. I don't want to go home. Not to my father. Every time I've seen him for the last three months or so, he's reminded me that I'm to volunteer this year. I will, but I'm sick of him repeating it so many times. But still, I'm going to volunteer. And I'm going to win.

* * *

_District 1: Jeremy Connor's POV:_

The pounding on the door wakes me up. I know before the door slams open that it's Father. Who else would it be?

Indeed, the muscular man who stands at the doorway is Father. "Wake up, Jeremy," he calls loudly. "It's reaping day. You can get some training in. I've even got the weights out. They're in the basement."

More training? I nearly fell down dead last week because of hours on end spent lifting weights far to heavy for me. But Father insists that I train, and I guess I agree it's for the best. Father doesn't care that I'm five years old. He wants me to volunteer this year, and become Panem's youngest victor.

So, yeah, I'm going to volunteer. I'm going to _win_. Father may have high expectations for me, but I'll do my best. Maybe I _will_ win. Father thinks I can.

I head down to the basement, where Father has laid out plenty of weights, plus my knives. I get to work on the weights, lifting them over my head one by one. When I'm finished, my arms are screaming. Father says that's how you know you're building up muscles. No wonder I have so much muscle for someone my age.

Back upstairs, I scarf down my breakfast. Father sits down across from me, and begins to question me.

"So, Jeremy, what day is today?" he asks.

"Reaping day." My mouth is full, stuffed with a bagel.

"What will _you_ be doing for reaping day?"

I stare at him. "Volunteering, Father."

"Yes, yes," he says. "What will you say when you're on the stage?"

I swallow a chunk of bagel. "Uh, 'I'm Jeremy Connor, and I'm going to be Panem's youngest victor'."

"Good," Father says. "And in the arena, what do you do?"

"I grab weapons," I answer. "And I kill! Kill, kill, kill!"

Father nods. "Will you have allies?"

"Yessir! The Careers!"

Father nods again. "And then?"

I frown. "I win?"

"Yes, Jeremy, you kill everyone and win the Games." He nods once again, satisfied. "Now, go get ready. One hour 'til the reaping."

I nod, and race to my room. I slip out of my pyjamas and change into a black suit. I peer into the mirror and giggle. I'm wearing a _suit_! Then, I comb back my short brown hair. I put on my tie the way Father always does, and run to show him my handiwork.

He frowns at me, and adjusts my tie. "Remember, Jeremy, it's _through_, not under."

I stare at him, then down at my tie. I tug on it, and it unravels, so t's just a black ribbon hanging around my neck. Father leans down and ties it properly. I stutter a thank you, and follow it with an apology.

There is a knock on the door. I look up at Father. He stares down at me. "Lilly, isn't it?"

I nod, remembering. I go and pull open the door. Lilly, my six-year-old friend, stands at the door, wearing a summer dress. She waves hesitantly to Father, and beckons me outside. Then she turns and walks down the street. I follow her.

"Lilly, I'm volunteering," I boast.

"I know. You've told me lots of times." She flashes me a grin. "Everyone knows."

"I'm going to be Panem's youngest victor," I add uncertainly.

"You've said that, too."

"You don't believe me," I say glumly. "I'm going to win, really."

"Good luck."

We arrive at the square, and Lilly goes to her section. I wave at her, then retreat to the very back. I see Father in the crowd. His face is dark. He doesn't think I'm going to volunteer? Well, I'm going to.

* * *

_District 1: Nathaniel Brenner's POV:_

A few things about me: My name's Nate. I'm short. Well, compared to some of my...peers. I get straight A's. They call me "the nerdy shrimp". I used to have a bunch of ladies, but they're gone now. They said I wasn't enough for them. Not brave enough? They're wrong there, I'd love to tell you. I'd love to show you, to, by volunteering. But that could be suicide. So, no, I'm not going to volunteer.

Well, I might be able to make it. I'm decent at hand-to-hand combat. I'm even better than Luke and Alexandra, who we call Alexis, my siblings. But they're younger, so that's their excuse.

It's reaping day, and I'm eighteen. It's my last year. It's not time for the reaping yet, so I'm taking Alexis and Luke to see my mother.

A bit of background: my father cheated on my mother. They divorced. Ever since, Alexis and Luke and I've lived in the community home, because our mother was considered an "inadequate parent". But we still go to visit her sometimes.

As we leave the community home, Alexis, who's twelve, launches into one of her complaint rounds. This one's gotten old.

"I was supposed to have the _least_ chance of being picked this year," she says grumpily. "I could stand in the back, and be, oh, the baby of the reaping. But no, they had to let all the younger kids in. Come _on_."

"So what?" sixteen-year-old Luke interrupts. "There'll be more girls there. More boys for you." He grins. Sometimes it seems to me that girls are all Luke cares about. He's always been a magnet.

"I don't care! And really, Luke, are you going to date a five-year-old?"

"Who said anything about dating?" Luke asks. "And anyways, maybe not the five-year-olds, but maybe an eleven-year-old. You've seen that girl who lives around the corner. She's eleven, right?" I think he's joking, but you never know with Luke.

"It doesn't matter! Why do all the little kids have to be there?"

I block out their argument; we've arrived. I go up to knock, but Alexis pushes past me and bangs on the door.

Mother opens the door and welcomes us in. We pile inside, and I'm struck by a truly terrible smell. Gagging, I try to identify it. We live in the community home, which doesn't have the best food - meaning, _really bad_ food - but even the food there smells better than Mother's food.

"I've been cooking," Mother says cheerily. "I've made a special cake for reaping day. Guess! Guess!" When we fail to produce even a guess, she tells us. "It's cucumber-carrot cake! Your father made that once, and you all loved it, I think!"

Well, Father was a decent chef, unlike Mother. But I don't say that, I say, "Thanks, Mother!" (After I nudge them, Alexis and Luke chorus their thank-yous.) "We'll come back after the reaping, okay? We can eat it then."

She agrees, and invites us into the living room. We plop down on the couch, and she quizzes us on our lives, what's happening, etc. Time passes, and eventually we get to the whole "Oh, look at the time, we should be going" thing, that awkward part of the visit where you try to end the conversation without being rude.

And so the four of us leave the house and make our way to the square.

* * *

_District 1: Sage Lock's POV:_

Early the morning of the reaping, I throw on my casual clothes and head out to the Academy for some last minute practice. I live pretty close to the Academy, so in a few minutes I arrive at the big metal doors. I heft them open, then head to the weapons gym. The gym is huge, and I mean _huge_. I can barely see the far side.

I warm up with a few laps. Five laps around the gym have me panting. I go for a drink of water, then return and visit the swords station. I beat up the metal post, trying to make a dent on it. I'm pretty strong, but not even I have been able to make a mark on the sword post. There are a few scratches on it from the swordsmen strong beyond anything seen before, and one deep wedge, but not much.

I train for an hour or so, then leave the gym. But I don't go home quite yet. There's another thing I have to check.

I stop by the headmaster's office and regard the sheet on the door. The pristine, white, perfect sheet. The Volunteering list.

Let me explain a bit. Every year, the teachers watch, map, and evaluate the students. They grade them based on their skills with weapons, their speed, their strength, their survival skills. Every month or so, they eliminate the students at the bottom. They're no longer in the running.

When there are sixteen eligible teenagers left - eight boys, eight girls, usually fifteen or older - they fight off.

Each of the sixteen is matched with another of the same gender. They both grab some gear, and are locked in a big room, where they fight until someone goes down. The fallen student is rarely dead; usually the winner has just injured them, or wrestled them down. But sometimes someone will die. A seventeen-year-old girl died this year.

I won the quarter finals, the first fight. I pierced my opponent in the shoulder with a knife. He went down, and I emerged the victor.

In the semifinals, I was against a huge eighteen-year-old, easily six and a half feet tall, with more muscles than any other student. We battled, mace-to-sword. He grazed my skin several times, but the mace was huge and clumsy. I cut off one of his fingers, and he dropped it. He was wary of me then, but almost managed to twist my arm so I cut myself. But in the end, I kicked him in the groin, and he buckled.

The finals - I was pitched against a middle height, skinny, lithe boy, maybe a year or so younger than me. He carried a ten-inch dagger. When the horn blew, I spent about ten minutes trying to strike him, disarm him, anything. He evaded me easily, hopping lightly around me, ducking under equipment. I was weighed down by my shield. Every so often, he would lunge in for a strike, and I'd deflect. But I wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. Finally, I decided to drop my shield. As it crashed to the floor, the boy's face twisted - Worry? Apprehension? Now able to move, I could chase the boy. Finally, I trapped him in the corner, where I smacked the dagger from his hand, and shoved him down.

I won all three fights. I'm our Academy's male victor. The other schools will be choosing other kids to volunteer.

On the volunteering list, on the male side, my name is first. I will be volunteering this year. And I will win.

* * *

_District 1: Heather Kaiste's POV:_

Hailey's the one who wakes me up. At first I think it's Hilary - the ten-year-old twins look so alike it's often hard to tell who's who. But Hilary's hair isn't that dark.

Hailey pounces on my bed, crying my name. "Heather! Heather, Mom and Dad are home!"

"Mom and Dad?" I stare at her, rubbing my eyes. "Well, this is a first."

"Probably 'cause it's reaping day," Hailey says thoughtfully. "But they're here!"

I haven't seen Mom or Dad in the morning for months. Usually, they wake up early and leave before we wake up. They go to their jobs, and come back when the twins are asleep, and sometimes I am, too. They make a lot of money, which seems to make them love their jobs more than they love us.

I sit up in bed and wave Hailey out. I take off my pyjamas and put on the short white dress I'll be wearing for the reaping. It's really small. Hilary once tried it on, and it was only slightly too big for her. I fasten my dress with a belt, and then head downstairs.

Mom sits at the table, her head buried in the District 1 Times. I groan and sit down next to her. I imagine my eyes are burning through the newspaper, burning it away, forcing her to look at me.

"Mom," I say loudly. "Hey, Mom." She doesn't give any hint that she heard me. "_Mom_." Nothing. I sigh, and grab the newspaper from her hands, ripping it.

"Heather!" Mom glares at me, and snatches the beloved newspaper back. "I was _reading_ that. You can't just go taking things away from people."

"_You_ can't just go on ignoring your daughter," I say grumpily. "You know who I'm talking about? _Me_, Mom. If you didn't know, I'm Heather Kaiste, and I'm your daughter."

"Heather," she sighs. "I'm busy. Go away. Go brush your hair or something. Or better, make breakfast."

"Mom, where's Dad?" I ask.

"If I tell you, will you leave me alone?" she snaps.

"Sure."

"He's out somewhere. Happy?"

"Not really," I murmur. Then, I walk to the door and throw on my heels. Fuming, I walk through the door and onto the street.

I go to my friend's house, only to find her leaving. Meet my friends, my clique: The taller girl, the one holding the keys, that's Gracie. Those two girls by her are Hannah and Viola. And there's Kaylie, walking from around the corner.

I hurry to meet them. They greet me, and we walk to the square together. We sign in, and go to our section. There, we wish Hannah luck as she goes to her section. She's a year younger than the rest of us.

I think I'm going to volunteer this year. I've been training for years with the intent of doing so. I'm going to win, too. I'm going to show Mom and Dad that I'm worth something.

* * *

_District 1: Artemis Sinclair's POV:_

I'm woken up by my father. Grumpily, without knocking, he opens the door and sticks his head in. I'm half awake already, and I see that he's forgotten to shave for the umpteenth time this week.

"Get up," he growls. "Your mother's off to her shop for last minute sales, and now I have to get you and your sister up." When I fail to respond, he continues. "_Why_ are girls so impossible? I just told you to get up, didn't you hear? And your mother, too. Doesn't make enough money. I've told her she needs to find a night job as well. But no, she's too lazy. What is it with women?"

He's always complaining about my mother, me, and my younger sister, 12-year-old Athena. Athena and I should get jobs and contribute to his beer funds, or to buy a pool table for him and my older brother, 20-year-old Apollo, to play on while we're out slaving away.

The three of us - Athena, my mom, me - are always the problem. We're why life is so _terrible_ for him. We should work 24 hours every day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Maybe if we did, his life would improve, and he wouldn't have to face the _terrible hardships_ of lazing around each day and every day with Apollo, wasting the money our mother earns.

"Get up, go wake up your sister. Or you can let her sleep and miss the reaping, I don't care." I would never let Athena miss the reaping. The Peacekeepers would take her away.

I get out of bed and wake Athena up. She looks at me drowsily. "Happy Hunger Games."

"May the odds be _ever _in your favor," I add. "Better start getting ready."

She smiles slightly, and gets out from under the covers. I return to my room and put on my reaping clothes: a long, emerald green dress. As I pull it on, something falls out onto the floor. It's a small box. A note is taped to the front.

_Artemis,_

_Good luck today. I'm sorry I can't give this to you personally; I have to go to the jewelry shop for some last minute sales. I picked this one out for you. Remember, when you were younger, you used to come to the store all the time and admire. This was one of your favorites.  
You mentioned that you were going to volunteer today. I hope to see you before the reaping to wish you luck again, but in case I can't, good luck._

_Your mother_

I open the box, and an emerald pendant falls out. I remember it from the shop. It used to sit on the lowest shelf, right where my eyes used to be. I clasp the necklace around my neck.

I leave my room and head to the dining room. I take a bagel from the bag on the counter, and begin to butter it. When I'm done, I butter one for Athena, too. I take a plate out and put it on the table for her. I find a plate for me, too, and head to my seat. And that's when I notice it.

Athena's bagel is gone.

And Apollo's standing near the table.

Eating a bagel.

I glare at him. "You took the bagel." Not a question.

He gives me an innocent look. "What bagel?"

"Athena's bagel."

"Oh, that was for Athena?" He smirks. "Thought it was for me. Well, you can make her another one. This one's mine, unless you want me to regurgitate it for her."

I punch him in the arm. He shoves me. I stumble back, and open my mouth to say something, something mean, to hurt him. But Apollo talks first.

"Father?" Dang it, he came in? I turn and see him, sitting at the table. "Father, did you see that? Artemis punched me."

"He pushed me," I counter.

"She punched me first."

Father stands up and comes over to me. "You punched your brother."

"He pushed me," I say.

"You punched him first."

"He pushed me!"

"Ever heard the saying, _an eye for an eye_?" Father's eyes gleam cruelly.

"I have." I turn, shove on my shoes, and leave the house. I sprint away from the house, my father, my spoiled brother. My life.

I'm going to volunteer this year. I have two main reasons. One, it's my duty as a Career. I've been training so I could enter and win. Two, to escape my life. I'll either make it better or die trying.

* * *

_District 1: Marble Chance's POV:_

I hate the Games. I hate the Capitol. I hate death. I hate that twenty-three children die each year, and ninety-five will die this year. I hate that here, in District One, we train children to kill other children. I hate that my parents wanted me to enter the Academy. I hate that my dad killed to win the Games. I hate that my family supports the Capitol.

My father won the Games when he was seventeen. Now, we're rich and live in Victor's Village.

I wake up two hours before the reaping. I shower, and put on my purple dress. I eat a big breakfast and leave. It's still an hour till the reaping, so I decide to hang out at the square.

I sign in and go to the female fourteen-year-olds' section. My friend, Satin, is waiting for me.

"Hey, Marble," she says.

"Hi," I reply.

"Planning to volunteer?" She grins mischievously.

I stare at her in horror. "_Volunteer_? I could never make it, Satin. I'd be volunteering for death."

"Isn't that what we all do?" She laughs. "Everyone who volunteers has a good chance of dying. They know it. They risk it."

"Well, I'm not like that," I say. "I don't train for the Games, I'm not a killer, I hate blood, violence, and death."

"Even though your father won?"

"He wanted me to train," I say. "I'm just not into it."

"Aren't we a pair," she laughs. "I want to go to the Academy, but my parents won't let me. Your parents want you to go, but you don't want to."

"Well, at least I know my life will be prolonged," I say. "I'm not going to be going into the Games, so I won't die a teen. Unless there's another epidemic, or I get hit by a Capitol car, or something like that."

"I doubt it," Satin says.

We keep talking, passing the time until the reaping. It passes quickly, and soon the square is full, and the mayor has begun his speech.

* * *

_District 1: Valentine Mara's POV:_

I won the Academy prelims. I'm on the top of the female Volunteering list for the Academy. I killed a seventeen-year-old girl in the quarter finals. It wasn't on purpose; I merely threw my knife and hit her in the heart. I won the semis by knocking my opponent out. The finals were more interesting.

I was against Judith Bren. She's fifteen, two years older than I am. I threw my knives, she deflected them. I had to advance with my sword. I'm decent with it, just not as good as I am with knives. I got in close, she jabbed at me with a spear, I lurched to the side, but it grazed my torso. I grabbed her spear while it was extended, and yanked it loose. Then, I struck at her with my sword, hitting her with the flat side. She stumbled back. Then, using the hilt, I shoved her down.

I had won, but she wasn't done with me quite yet.

"So, you're going to volunteer?" She gave me a look of disgust and envy. "You're going to try and win? Little thirteen-year-old baby."

"Oh, so you were beaten by a baby?" I mocked.

Her face contorted in anger. "You may have won the prelims, but you'll never be able to win the Games. _Never. _You'll die. Painfully, I hope."

"You're wrong," I hissed, digging the point of my blade into her shoulder. She winced. "I'm going to win. I'm stronger than you are. I may be thirteen, but I can win. I _will_ win, just you see."

Judith thought I couldn't win. Two thirteen-year-olds have won before, and this year the age group is younger. I'm going to volunteer. If I'm reaped, I'm going to volunteer anyways.

.

Fifteen minutes before the reaping, I meet my friend, Geode, at the statue of District 1's first mayor. Geode's my best friend from the Academy. I've known her since I entered at the age of eight.

"So, you're volunteering." There is a hint of envy in Geode's voice.

"Yeah, I am."

"Good luck," she says.

"Thanks."

"You're _so_ going to win."

I grin, and we walk to the square. We sign in and go to the female thirteen-year-old section, which is near the middle because of all the younger kids. We're just in time; the mayor has just walked to center stage. He reads his speech, describing North America, and how it was destroyed. He talks about the Dark Days, the Treaty of Treason, the Hunger Games. The last rebellion, the one at the third Quarter Quell. The one the Capitol suppressed just in time.

Then the escort takes the stage. "Happy Hunger Games! Now I will be picking your eight tributes. I will start with the ladies." She teeters over to the ball. The ball with my name in it nine times, no tesserae taken. I prepare myself to shout the words.

"Ade Ger - "

"I volunteer!"

It wasn't me. I close my mouth angrily. I find the source: A girl from the fifteen-year-old section. She walks to the stage. "My name is Heather Kaiste."

The escort reaches for another name. Her mouth has just opened when someone else shouts, "I volunteer!" I make a growling noise at the back of my throat. A sixteen year old girl walks to the stage. She tells the escort her name is Artemis Sinclair.

The escort pulls out another name. She unfolds it, and clears her throat. I don't hear the name, though, I only hear my own voice. "I volunteer as tribute!" I push out of my section and walk to the stage. I catch Judith Bren's eye. She gives me a look of loathing. I reach the stage. The escort asks for my name. "I'm Valentine Mara," I say.

The escort reaches into the ball for the last time. "Marble Chance!"

Silence. And then sobbing. It comes from the fourteen-year-olds' section. From a girl with curly brown hair wearing a purple dress. Her wails only increase as the Peacekeepers grab her and drag her to the stage.

"Now we will choose our male tributes... Dae Corox!"

"I volunteer!" A ten-year-old boy comes to the stage. "I'm Tiger Lee," he says.

"Our next tribute is... Paul Dean!"

"I volunteer." A tiny boy comes up from the five-year-old section. Seriously? "I'm Jeremy Connor, soon to be Panem's youngest victor." I try not to snicker. _We'll see about that._

"Tame Nime."

"I volunteer!" Sage Lock comes up. Of course I recognize him. He was the male number-one volunteer.

"Nathaniel Brenner!"

Silence. And then an eighteen-year-old comes up. No one volunteers. Chickens...

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a hand to our tributes this year!"

The district claps while we all shake hands. The anthem plays and then we're led into the Justice Building.

* * *

**A/N: That took forever to type. Anyway, please rate these tributes from favorite to least favorite. Reoccurring favorites will receive more sympathy from me.**


	3. District 2 Reaping

**A/N: Placings from the last chapter:**

**1- Artemis Sinclair **

**2- Sage Lock**

**3- Valentine Mara**

**4- Tiger Lee**

**5- Heather Kaiste**

**6- Jeremy Connor**

**7- Nate Brenner**

**8- Marble Chance**

* * *

District_ 2: Kai Kentwell's POV:_

It's the morning of the reaping, and I'm training in the Academy. I've been training since I was five. I'm fifteen now. I could wait another three years to volunteer, but why wait? Ten years of training have prepared me as much as you can be prepared. I can win the Games easily.

I heft my sword and approach a lone dummy. I pause, then leap onto it, disemboweling it with my sword. Panting and sweating, I soon reduce it to a pile of scraps on the floor. I clench my sword in my hand. _That was easy_.

My trainer says that I'm the only student he's ever come across who can tear dummies to pieces like that.

I continue practicing, but am distracted by a _thwack-thwack. _There had been other people in the gym the whole time, but I hadn't noticed them, not really. But this was different. Only one person could nail two bull's eyes in rapid-fire quick succession.

Milah Jones.

I see her at the knife rack, now holding another two knives in those slim, pale hands... Her straight black hair is pulled back into a ponytail that wraps around her shoulder, cradling her ear...and the way it swoops around her head...

_Thwack-thwack!_ Another double bull's eye. I shake my head in wonder and turn back.

.

An hour later, I leave the Academy and return home. Lilac greets me at the front door. She's my sister. She's one year younger than I am.

"Father wants to know if you're still going to volunteer," she says.

I laugh. "Of course I'm going to. Why ever did he think I wasn't?"

Lilac shrugs. "Don't ask me."

"I'm going to volunteer," I insist. "Father wants me to, and _I_ want to, and I can. I'm going to win."

"He'll be happy to hear that," she says.

I walk inside. "Where _is_ Father, anyways?"

"Probably eating breakfast," Lilac responds. "He was pouring cereal when I last saw him."

I nod, and brush past her. I go into the dining room, where Father is, indeed, eating his cereal.

"Hello, Father," I say.

"You're volunteering," he says flatly.

"Yes, I _know_," I reply, irritated. "I've always wanted to, and it because final when I got third in the prelims, remember? And there are four potential male volunteers, so I'm in."

"And you'll ally with the other strong tributes," Father adds.

"I _know_."

"And you'll make sure all the others die, and you'll win. You'll be famous, and we'll be rich."

"Trust me, Father," I say. "I can win. I _will_ win."

* * *

_District 2: Pierce Nathaniel's POV:_

I don't remember my parents. They were killed when I was young. Soon after their death, I was adopted by one of the richer families in the district. They adopted me just to seem generous and good-hearted in the eyes of others, but I think my adoptive mother really does love me. I can't say the same for my father, though; he mostly ignores me. To him, I guess I'm just one more mouth to feed.

I have a sister, too. She's thirteen, and I think she has a crush on me. A lot of the girls in the district do. I suppose I'm sort of good looking.

I wake up the morning of the reaping, and go over to my closet. I go through my suits. Which one should I wear?

I pick it out almost immediately. The pure white one. The one the mayor's daughter gave me last week. Along with a few words - "Volunteer next week. You can win." I think she likes me, too. Maybe if I win, I'll date her in a few years.

She wants me to volunteer? Oh, I'm going to volunteer. I'm going to test myself, see if I can win. I'm only twelve, but I can try. And the mayor's daughter thinks I can. That means I probably can. She doesn't hand out praise generously.

And also, she wants me to volunteer. She requested it of me. Really, to refuse would be...disrespectful.

So would be not wearing the suit she gave me.

I put on the white suit, and look at myself in the mirror.

"You look handsome in that," a voice says.

I turn around. It's my sister, Lilith, already dressed and ready for the reaping. "Thank you. Isn't it nice? The Mayor's daughter gave it to me."

Lilith stiffens. "The... Pierce, did you just say the _Mayor's daughter_ gave it to you?"

Lilith, though my adoptive sister, also has a crush on me. So, maybe I shouldn't have mentioned the Mayor's daughter. Oh, well. Too late.

"Yeah, Lilith, she did." I smile at her, furiously thinking about what to say next.

"Pierce," Lilith says coldly, "do you _like_ her?"

"The Mayor's daughter?" I raise my eyebrows.

"Yes." Lilith wrinkles her nose.

"Don't be ridiculous," I say airily. "My heart lies with someone else."

"Who?"

I try to tap into my manipulative nature. I pretend to blush, then smile slightly at her. "Well... Oh, Lilith, I love your dress. The Mayor's daughter showed me the dress _she_ was wearing for the reaping, and it wasn't _nearly _as beautiful as yours is."

She grins happily. "Thanks! I thought you'd like it."

I smile slightly. "I do."

_I do_. Words are powerful. More powerful than any weapon, I've learned.

* * *

_District 2: Gladius Ruther's POV:_

"Dude, are you volunteering this year?" Markus, my friend, asks. "Or are you going to chicken out again?"

"Chicken out _again_?" I repeat incredulously. "Whenever did I _chicken out_?"

"Last year," Markus answers. "You were one of the first names on the Academy volunteering list, weren't you? You were bragging about it until the reaping after the list was posted. But you didn't volunteer."

"I was _fourth_," I say. "Last year was a normal year, so only one person volunteers. Most likely, they are the first person on the list. The fourth person only is the one to volunteer if the first three all chicken out. The person on the top of the list volunteered, so it wasn't necessary. I would have volunteered if none of the first three did."

"Whatever. Forget last year. Are you volunteering _this_ year?" Markus asks.

"I'm on the list," I say. "And there are four boys going in. _And_ it's the only Quarter Quell I'll ever be eligible for. Quarter Quells are the best years to win. So, yeah. I'm definitely volunteering."

"Cool," Markus says. "I'm volunteering next year. It's my last year. Well, I _could_ volunteer this year, as I'm eighth on the list. I could just say whatever, and volunteer. But _you're _volunteering, and I don't want to have to kill one of my friends to win the Games. Even though it's a Quarter Quell year. Because we all know I'd beat you."

"You could _not_ beat me," I insist. "I'm higher on the volunteering list than you are. Markus, remember, I got second in the Hunger Games Prelims. _Second place_."

"Doesn't matter," Markus says. "I'm older. I'm older, so I'm therefore more experienced when it comes to killing and the Hunger Games. I'm seventeen, and you're only fifteen."

"So I'm only fifteen," I say. "Doesn't matter. I've been going to the Academy since I was five. I've been training with weapons since I was eight. I've made the top eight list for two years. And I got second in the prelims. _Second in the prelims_. That's high. Higher than I've ever gotten. Higher than _you_ ever got. I can totally win this, Markus."

Markus nods. "Yeah. You win, and we'll all be happy. I'll win next year, and we'll all be happier. And we'll be neighbors in Victor's Village. And isn't Theo volunteering the year after that?"

"He says he is," I answer. "So he probably is. Then we'll all be happy neighbors living our rich, happy lives of luxury in Victor's Village. All three of us. But yeah, I think he's volunteering."

"I thought so." Markus is quiet for a moment. Then he looks me up and down, and he actually asks, "Is that really what you're wearing for the reaping, Gladius?"

"Yeah," I say. I look down at my black pants and t-shirt. "I always dress simply, even for the reaping, Markus. Haven't you noticed? Something wrong with it?"

"No," Markus replies. "No. I was just wondering if we could walk to the square now, or if you needed to go back and change. I was hoping you were already dressed."

"Yeah, I'm dressed, we can go now," I say. "And we probably should. The reaping's in fifteen minutes. I don't know about you, Markus, but _I_ don't want to be late."

* * *

_District 2: Baxon VaMeer's POV:_

I did very well in the Hunger Games Prelims in the Academy. I'm the first volunteer. I'm only fourteen. So what? I've been training since I was just a little baby boy, innocent and wide-eyed and naïve. I've trained in every way possible. I'm _the_ best fourteen-year-old in the Academy. I've outdone even the eighteen-year-olds in some way.

The morning of the reaping, I stop by the Academy for some last minute training.

I go into the weapons gym, and pick up my sword. The sword I always train with. The one I've made it clear that _no one_ else can touch. _My_ sword.

I grasp the hilt, and find a nice dummy. I find a fat one in the northeastern corner of the gym.

Grinning, I walk over to it. I take a deep breath, and then I launch into an attack.

I let out a yell, and jump at the poor dummy, thrashing at it with my sword. I decapitate it on the first strike. So, it's dead. (Though, by definition, it was never really alive in the first place.) But that doesn't stop me.

I dance around the dummy, slashing my sword through it, reducing it to chunks of...whatever it's made of. The material they make this kind of dummies out of - the ones that are meant to be cut apart like butter.

Sweating, I look at the pile of rubble at my feet. The destruction I've created.

I walk over to the water fountain at the side of the gym, my sword still clenched tightly in my hand. I drink, slurping in the delicious, clean, cool water. The, I stick my head into the water stream. Oh, yes.

When I'm done, I survey the gym once more, this time looking for the harder dummy - the one that no swordfighter could disembowel and reduce to chunks of material.

It takes me a minute, but I eventually spot one by the knives station. I walk over to the dummy. I'm yards away when the girl comes up by my side.

She's probably sixteen, with the dark hair and dark eyes that are the norm in Two. She holds a mace in her left hand. She pays me no attention. She is going toward the same dummy that I am.

I speed up, jogging toward the dummy. We arrive at the same time.

"I was here first," the girl says. "So _you_ can just go and find another dummy. One that isn't occupied. Or you can push someone _else_ off of theirs. But this dummy is mine."

I smile at her. "I'm sorry, but _I_ was here first. So _you_ can take your silly mace and find another dummy, because _this_ dummy is mine. I was here first. Got it?" I'm still smiling at her, but it's only superficial. She knows that. I've seen this look in the mirror. My eyes are still as cold as stone.

She steps in front of me, grabbing the dummy. She tries to move it. She yanks at it, and it slides barely an inch. These dummies are very dense, and _very_ heavy.

"Oh, you're going to drag that away?" I say, laughing. "Well, good luck. Don't those dummies way, like, four hundred pounds? What, did you think they'd be only as heavy as the other kind?"

"I know how much they weigh," she snaps, turning around to glare at me. "Now, I think it's time that you clear off and drag your silly butt off to another dummy."

I can't help but laugh. "No, I believe that's your job."

I shove her to the side, and grab ahold of the dummy. Groaning, I lug it away from her. When she comes back, face red with anger, I twist around and smack her with the flat of my sword. She stumbles back.

My voice icily sweet, I tell her, "I think it's time you realized that this is _my_ dummy, and you ought to find your own."

She glares at me, and shoves me into the dummy, almost knocking me down. Plus the dummy. And hen she turns on her heel, and walks away.

Victorious, I turn to the dummy. I take a breath, and then launch into attack. But a different kind than with the other dummy.

I pull moves I've learned - I twist the sword in vulnerable places, I whirl around the dummy and stab it right in the heart, I duck around the dummy and slash.

This fight doesn't end when the dummy is beaten. Like, _in pieces_ beaten. If that was your goal, you'd be fighting for years. I haven't even left a mark. No, there is no truly _beating_ a dummy of this kind, when that is your definition of beating.

This dummy always wins. After ten minutes of battling it, I wipe the sweat from my face, put my sword back on the rack, and leave the gym.

I go to my father's restaurant, Stonework, for breakfast. I order some pancakes at the front desk. I glimpse Father in the back room, and I wave. He waves back.

I sit back down at my seat. A few minutes later, a pile of fresh, warm pancakes is brought to me. I gobble down the pancakes one by one. The syrup makes them delicious.

After eating, I return home, Father at my side. I change into my reaping clothes. I'm wearing all black. The words "Next Hunger Games Victor" are emblazoned on the back of the shirt.

Then, with my parents, I walk to the square for the reaping. I can hardly wait to volunteer.

* * *

_District 2: Aloe Terray's POV:_

Early the morning of the reaping, I leave my house and head to the Academy for some last minute practice. I go to the weapons gym, and head immediately to the knife-throwing station.

Knives are my specialty. Well, really, throwing knives, and other weapons. Spears, sticks, anything. I always hit the target. I almost always get bull's eyes. I've been training for years, and have become quite deadly.

The gym's crowded, like it always is on the morning of the reaping. The other kids talk and laugh together. They train together. They do everything together. But not me. I train alone. I ignore the others, and they ignore me. They always do, and I've gotten used to it. I guess I'm glad about it, sometimes. There's no one to distract me now.

I nail bull's eye after bull's eye. I eventually switch to a spear. Bull's eye. Years of practice have made my aim impeccable.

Three years ago, I was training in this very gym. But not alone. I trained with a friend. Yes, a friend. Once upon a time, I had a friend. His name was Felix Brown. It was quite a day for him. He was only twelve, and he went into the Games. He died on the second day.

I'm going to volunteer this year. I hope I can win. I think I can. And if I do win, I'll be showing everyone - myself included - that I can do it. I'm superior to them.

I train for another hour, then return to the training center dorm and change into my reaping clothes. I'm wearing a black skirt, and a black tank top with the letters "HG" on the back. For the Hunger Games. The eventual source of my fame and self esteem.

I never met my family. When I was born, they gave me to the Academy, who had just began running a branch of the community home for devoted orphans. I was a baby. But apparently I was devoted.

Twenty minutes before the reaping, I go to the square. I sign in, and go to the girl's fifteen-year-old section. There, I wait until the reaping begins.

* * *

_District 2: Astrid Oaks's POV:_

"So, you're volunteering?" Ciara asks. She's my friend, and though she's a year older than I, we're in the same year at school.

I nod. "Yep, I'm volunteering this year."

"You're volunteering?" my younger sister, 11-year-old Acacia repeats. I wouldn't normally be walking with her, but Mother, a past victor, told me to walk her to the square while she prepares dinner. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I wanted it to be a surprise?"

"More importantly," Ciara says, "do you think you can win?"

"Yeah."

"No, really, Astrid." Ciara is dead serious. "You're only thirteen. You weren't even in the prelims. You were, what, thirtieth place?"

"Twenty-eighth," I correct. My highest placing ever. "And Ciara, I've been training in the Academy since I was five. That's eight years of training. I may be thirteen, but I can win."

"Maybe in a normal year," Ciara says, "but this year, there are ninety-six tributes! Four times the norm. It's not worth the risk."

"Yeah, but a lot of the tributes are younger," I point out. "And Ciara, I know most volunteers, if not all, are older than me. But I still think I can win. I definitely have a chance. I can kill."

"Astrid," Acacia says. "We already live in Victor's Village, because of Mother. We're already rich. And I don't want to lose my sister."

"You won't," I assure her. "I'm going to volunteer, and win. You'll see."

"Fine," Acacia mumbles. "But you'd better win. Really."

"I will," I say.

"Astrid, why can't you wait until you're seventeen or eighteen?" Ciara asks me.

"I don't want to," I say. "This is the only Quarter Quell I'll ever be eligible for. And I can win this year."

Ciara looks troubled, but she nods.

"You don't think I can win," I accuse her suddenly. We're almost to the square, we're already at the bottleneck of people waiting in line to sign in. Several of them turn around.

Ciara blinks. "I never said that," she says. "Why would I think - "

"You wouldn't be so concerned for me if you thought I could win," I say angrily.

"I - I'm not concerned."

"You are!" I exclaim. "You don't want me to volunteer because you think I'm going to die!"

"I'm sure you can win, Astrid," Ciara says.

"No, you're not sure," I say coldly. "But I know I can. I go to the Academy! I got twenty-eighth this year! First in the thirteen-year-olds list! I'm going to win, but you don't think I can, do you!"

"I'm sure you'll win," Ciara repeats. "Cool off, Astrid."

"_Cool off_?" I almost yell.

The people around me are murmuring. I see a few Peacekeepers coming over to see what's going on. I glare at Ciara, and then dive into the crowd.

* * *

_District 2: Lila Walker's POV:_

Early the morning of the reaping, Lizzie, my older sister, takes me out to the woods. We bring the knives along. Most kids train in the Academy gym. But I don't go to the Academy. I don't plan to volunteer. Ever. The only reason we train is because we wouldn't want to be reaped and go into the Games totally unprepared.

We sneak past the few people who are already up, and make our way to the fence surrounding the district. Lizzie crawls under the gap in the fence, and I follow her. The fence is usually coursing with electricity, and so we have to be very careful when we slip through the gaping hole.

We run into the forest. When we're sure no one can see us, we stop.

Lizzie takes out a knife, and goes over to a tree. She carves a target onto it. Then, she backs up and hands me a few knives.

"After you," she says.

I nod, and grip my first knife. I take a deep breath, and then I hurl it at the bull's eye. It drives deep in. I look back at Lizzie, and she gives me a thumbs up. My next few knives also are bull's eyes. I've been training with knives for years and years, and I'm really good with them.

Lizzie throw her knives then. She's twenty-one, four years older than I am, but she says she wants to stay in practice.

When all the knives have been thrown , I go up to pull them each out.

A few come out easily. But one doesn't. Impatiently, I yank on the hilt. I growl, and put all my energy into tugging it out of the tree. It's still stuck firmly.

After a minute of this, I cry out in frustration. "This stupid knife isn't coming out! I've been pulling for a while, but it's stuck! Lizzie, come and help me!"

She comes over. "Okay, okay, stop yelling."

Lizzie's always gentle and understanding to me. She recognizes that life isn't always easy when you're ADHD and often bipolar, like me.

Lizzie helps ease the knife out. She hands it to me, and I mumble a thanks.

We continue throwing knives. One time, my knife misses the tree completely. I explode in annoyance.

"How did I just _miss the tree_? I _always_ hit the tree! This stupid knife isn't helping!" I throw my handful of knives into the ground, and stomp over to retrieve my other knife.

"Remember," Lizzie tells me. "Line up your eye, your knife, and your target. And then move the knife over, but keep the angle the same. And if you don't hit, count to ten, control yourself, and breath deeply. And then go get your knife."

"Yes, I know," I say, still annoyed. How did I miss the tree completely?

We keep throwing knives until my watch alerts me that we have half an hour until the reaping. We collect the knives, and go back to the fence. Lizzie slides through the gap, and I follow her.

We go back to the house and put on our reaping clothes. I don a silver dress and black flats.

I leave the house with my mom and Lizzie. Our dad died when I was young. He's gone now, and we always walk to the reaping alone.

We sign in at the square, and I go to the seventeen-year-old section. I meet my friend, Maeve, there. She greets me. We talk for a while.

I hate being cooped up in the section. I'm squished in with too many other people. I can barely move. I feel the panic rising in me. I need to get out of here.

I stifle that feeling, and turn my attention to the stage. The reaping has begun.

* * *

_District 2: Marika Trefoil's POV:_

The morning of the reaping, clad in my reaping clothes, I meet my friends by Valencia's house. I'm the last one there. Delphine is glaring at me. Trojan looks even more annoyed than Delphine.

And Valencia stands, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. "You're late," she says quietly. "Did we not agree that we'd meet at half past?"

Red in the face, I look down at my canvas shoes and mumble, "Yes, we did. Sorry."

"And what time is it now?" Valencia raises her eyebrows at me. "Can you tell us that?"

Even redder, I mumble, "After half past?"

Valencia laughs. "Well, of course. Can we get the _exact_ time?"

"Uh... Sorry, Valencia, I don't know."

Shooting me a superior look, Trojan announces, "It's quarter till."

"Exactly." Valencia smiles at Trojan. "Fifteen minutes until the reaping. Your tardiness has made us at risk of being late for the reaping."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"You should be," Delphine says. I try not to cower. Delphine is known for beating people up.

"Let's head to the reaping now," Valencia suggests. She turns, and we follow her. "So, I've been thinking," she says. "I've been thinking about how _cool_ it would be if one of us volunteered." She glances back at us. "Thoughts?"

"I agree," Trojan says. "It _would_ be cool. I wonder who it will be."

"I'm sure one of us will step up," Delphine says. "It would be a shame if one didn't, though."

"I'm glad you agree," Valencia says. "Well, consider it. I'm sure one of us will volunteer. If no one does, we'll have some talking to do."

We reach the square, and sign in. Then, we go to our section. The other keep talking, but I'm deep in thought.

Ever since I joined the group, my goal has been to get the others' attention. to make them happy, even. And now, Valencia wants one of us to volunteer. I've been training for a while, and I think I'm ready. I've already been considering volunteering, too. I'd love to gain a life of riches and luxury. But Valencia's request has cemented it. I guess I'm going to volunteer.

The mayor steps up to the stage and begins his speech. Eventually, the escort takes his place. She shows us the annual video. America, the creation of Panem, the Dark Days, the Treaty of Treason.

When the film is finished, the escort comes back up. "Now," she says, "it is time to choose our eight tributes. Eight tributes? Wonderful! We'll start with the girls!"

She walks over to the girls' ball and pulls out a slip. She unfolds it, and reads out a name.

"I volunteer!" someone shouts. She's in my section. Is it Valencia? Delphine? Trojan?

No. It's a girl I've seen before, but can't place a name to. She walks to the stage. "I'm Aloe Terray," she announces.

The escort pulls out the next name. Another girl volunteers. Thirteen years old, she says her name is Astrid Oaks.

The escort grins and draws a third name from the bowl. My heart is racing. Should I volunteer? Fame... Valencia wanted someone to... None of the others have volunteered yet... I decide to wait.

"Lila Walker!"

A seventeen-year-old stumbles from her section, shocked and unprepared. I wait for the volunteer. There isn't any. Lila takes her place by the escort.

Our escort pulls out the last female name. She reads it out. It's not me. I wait for one of the girls to volunteer. They don't. A fourteen-year-old girl leaves her section.

Valencia wanted me to. _I _want to. And so...

"I volunteer!" I shout, surprising myself. I run to the stage and stand by the other girls. Did I really just...volunteer? I've pleased Valencia, finally. I feel a smile creeping over my face.

"wonderful," the escort says. "What's your name?"

"I'm Marika Trefoil," I say, grinning.

"Now it is time to choose our four male tributes!" the escort says gleefully. "First up - Marrus Cru - "

"I volunteer!" a fifteen-year-old boy shouts. He pushes through the crowd. The seven-year-old, Marrus, sighs in relief and sinks back into his section. The volunteer walks jauntily up to the stage. "I'm Kai Kentwell," he says into the microphone.

"And for our next tribute, we have - "

"I volunteer!" another boy shouts. I crane my neck to see who it is. I'm startled to see the volunteer emerge from the twelve-year-old section. He walks to the stage, where the escort asks him his name. "Pierce Nathaniel," he replies.

"Next, we have Charlie Bayus," the escort announces. "Would Charlie Bayus please come up?"

A nine-year-old boy is pushed up. He cries with relief when the words ring out.

"I volunteer!" A fifteen-year-old boy goes up to the stage, barely looking at the original tribute, now backing back into the nine-year-olds' section. "I'm Gladius Ruther."

"Aren't volunteers exciting?" the escort gushes. "Well, we'll see if we have a seventh volunteer. For our last tribute here in District Two, we have Ree Steel."

A thirteen-year-old comes out of his section, and stumbles to the stage, a broad smile taking over his face.

"I volunteer." The words are said almost lazily. A fourteen-year-old pushes his way to the stage, cutting in front of Ree. The volunteer grabs the escort's mic and says, "I'm Baxon VaMeer, District Two's next Victor."

"Wonderful!" the escort beams. "So, we now have all eight of our tributes. Let's give them a hand, folks!"

The crowd claps dutifully. The anthem plays, and we're led into the Justice Building.

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry about the shorter POVs. Also, I won't be able to update until I get one girl and one boy for District Three. If you've already submitted four or more, please don't submit more.**

**So, please rate these tributes from your favorite to your least favorite. Send them in a PM if you already reviewed the former chapter three. I combined two chapters, so everything is screwed up.**


	4. District 3 Reaping

**A/N: Here are the results from the last chapter:**

**1- Lila Walker**

**2- Astrid Oaks**

**3- Gladius Ruther**

**4- Aloe Terray**

**5- Kai Kentwell **

**6- Baxon VaMeer**

**7- Pierce Nathaniel **

**8- Marika Trefoil**

* * *

District_ 3: Brooke Ruthery's POV:_

On reaping day morning, I wake up to find that Molly, 11-year-old sister, has laid out a dress on the end of my bed. I sit up drowsily, rubbing my eyes. We live in the community home of District Three, and I had expected to have to wear jeans and a collared shirt, like in past years. But no - on the end of my cot, there is a grey dress.

I look around the room. The other girls, my older sister included, wear trousers, dirty skirts, old shirts. I am the only one with a dress.

"Molly," I say.

Molly glances at me, pulling our brush from her tangled hair. "Oh, look. Sleeping Beauty has woken up." She smiles tiredly at me.

"Molly," I say. "Is this for me?" I gesture to the dress.

"Yeah," she says.

"Where did you get it?" I ask.

"Oh, somewhere," she says vaguely. "You can wear it today. But then I'll need to return it."

I nod, then hop out of bed. I slip out of my night-shirt and put on the dress. It's a bit too small, but I don't care. I brush my long black hair, and flip it over my shoulder. Then, I put on my sandals.

When I'm ready, Molly and I walk to the cafeteria. It's just a small room with a counter at one wall and a few benches. We go up to the counter, where they hand us small bowls filled with a grainy oatmeal. We sit down on one of the long benches.

A minute later, one of Molly's friends, Electra, comes over to us. "Hi," she says quietly. "Ready for the reaping?"

"Not really?" Molly admits.

"What about you?" Electra asks me.

"I'm only nine," I say. "If I'm reaped, I'm not sure what I'll do."

"You're the smartest nine-year-old I know," Electra says. "I'm sure you could make it."

"But you won't be reaped," Molly assures me. "You only have fifteen entries."

I don't reply. I scoop a clump of oats up and shovel it into my mouth. It's not very good oatmeal, but it's all there is. Every kid in the community home is required to take two tesserae to help with the meals. The grain we get usually goes into the oatmeal. It's the most common breakfast. I'm sick and tired of the cold mash of oats.

Molly and I've lived here for years and years, ever since our parents were killed. They were both victors. My mother ran away from District One, and met my father, from Four. They got married. They would slip frequently out of the district. They were adventurers, both of them. And one day, when Molly and I were young, they were caught. They were executed, and Molly and I were taken to the nearest district: 3. We've lived here ever since.

When we finish our oatmeal, we go back to our room. On the way, I find Blake, my friend. He's ten years old, and he's been here since he was eight.

"Hi, Brooke," he says. "How was breakfast?"

"Same as usual," I reply.

"Let me guess - oatmeal." He gives me a small grin.

I hide my shock. "You - you haven't eaten yet?"

"Hey, breakfast hour is from six to seven. It's not seven yet," Blake says. "Well? Is it oatmeal again?"

"No, it's pancakes." I practice my poker face.

Blake stares at me. "_Pancakes_?"

I return his stare. "Pancakes."

Blake's eyes tear up slightly. "I haven't had pancakes since..." He shakes his head. "You're kidding."

I sigh. "Yeah, I'm kidding."

"It _is_ oatmeal, then?"

"Oatmeal," I confirm.

"I don't suppose it's heated?" Blake cracks a smile.

"Do they _ever_ heat the oatmeal?" I ask.

"Once," he says. "Remember, the Mayor was doing the investigation for the...what was it?"

"Per capita GDP?"

"Yeah, that." Blake grins. "Weren't we low. Remember, he brought his oven. Thought we wouldn't be able to produce decently heated food to satisfy his requirements."

"He was right," I say.

"He was," Blake agrees. "And we had _heated_ oatmeal."

"It was so much better," I remember wistfully. "I wish the Mayor would come back, and bring his oven again. That would be great, wouldn't it? And he could bring cake, too. And pancakes. He's _so rich_, Blake. He can afford anything. And he lives in a mansion. He lives alone in a building five times the size of this building."

"You're making me hungry," Blake grumbles. "I'm going to go down to the cafeteria now. I'm hungry. See you at the reaping." He lapses into an exaggerated Capitol accent. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

I roll my eyes, and go to the dorm.

.

The video finishes, and the escort, Tissy, beams at us.

"The time has come to pick our eight tributes," she says is a high, shrill voice. "We'll start with the girls."

She teeters over to the bowl, and plucks out a name. The crowd is deathly silent with fear and anticipation.

_Not me, not me_, I chant in my head. _Don't choose me. Not me._

"Brooke Ruthery!" she cries.

My heart skips a beat. _Not me..._ But it is me. Brooke Ruthery. That's my name. As the words sink in, I feel as if the world as collapsed, crushing me under it.

"Brooke Ruthery!" Tissy repeats. "Would Brooke Ruthery please come to the stage?"

_Someone, please volunteer_! I think desperately. I can't go.

But I have to. I try to wipe the fear from my face. I walk slowly from my section, brushing away the Peacekeepers. But they insist on escorting me to the stage.

I stumble up the steps, and Tissy grins at me. But I can't match her enthusiasm, not in the least.

I see Molly's horrified face in the crowd. I wonder if, late as it is, she will volunteer. But she doesn't.

* * *

_District 3: Misa Hodgeton's POV:_

_The tree is tall and old. Its branches are thin and spindly and weak. The eight kids are assembled at the base. One from District Three, one from Six, three from Seven, and three from Eleven. They stand in a circle around the tree. A man stands farther back. He counts down from three. _

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

_The man blows a whistle, and the eight children run to the tree and begin to climb. Like a pack of squirrels, they race up the tree. A tiny boy from Eleven is in first. A heavyset girl from Six is in second. The boy pushes off of a thin, weak branch. The girl follows him. But the branch does not support her weight._

_The branch breaks, and falls to the ground. Right behind it is the girl, hurtling to the ground. The fall is long, and when the girl hits the ground, she does not move. Only one of the other kids see. The girl from Three is clinging to the trunk, staring at the fallen girl in horror. _

_The man, after appointing the boy from Eleven the winner, looks at the broken form of the girl on the ground. He bends down next to her and fumbles for her wrist._

_There is no heartbeat._

I wake up, my heart racing, sure I'm falling after the girl. I've been having that nightmare for months, ever since the contest where the girl died. I'm a competitive tree climber, and I've participated in a few competitions. That was the only one where someone has died.

I get out of bed and suddenly remember. It's reaping day. Today, eight poor souls will be chosen for death. I have ten entries. I hope I am not reaped. I'm great in the natural world, but I'm not a fighter.

I put on a forest green dress and brown tights. I brush out my dark brown, wavy hair and pull it up into a high ponytail. I glance in the mirror. I have olive colored eyes and peachy skin. I look decent, I guess.

I leave my room and go to the dining room. There, my mother is eating cereal. Dan, my 14-year-old deaf brother, is also eating cereal. 11-year-old Sam is eating a bagel. There is another bagel where 7-year-old Alex sits. Alex isn't at the table yet, though, and Sam is poking wasabi into the bread. There's Sam for you - devilish little prankster.

And my father is also at the table. He's tasting...cheese.

Father looks up when I enter. "Misa," he says. "Come here and taste this for me. I've been experimenting, and I think that if you put more _sugar_ into the cheese, it's better. What do you think?" He holds out a chunk of yellow cheese.

See, Father's been obsessed with cheese for a while. He's now been trying to invent a new kind of cheese. He usually fails, but that only inspires him to keep trying.

I take the cheese and bite off a sliver. I gag. "This is...sweet," I say, choking. "How much sugar did you put in?"

Father holds up an empty paper bag.

"_Father_!" I exclaim. "That's half of the monthly sugar ration!"

Father shrugs. "It's going to a good cause, though, isn't it? And anyway, we're lucky to be getting any sugar at all. Most families don't get sugar as often as we do."

"But still!"

"Father's crazy," Alex says matter-of-factly, entering the room and sitting down in the empty seat. "Did you taste his latest cheese?" Sam hurriedly stuffs the pack of wasabi into his pocket. Alex glances over at him. "What are you doing?" he asks suspiciously.

"Nothing," Sam says.

Alex frowns. "You _did_ do something! Was stealing Grandpa's old baseball cards not enough?"

"I already _told_ you that wasn't me!" Sam insists. "And anyway, why would you want a bunch of old-fashioned cards with pictures of old-fashioned American baseball players?"

"They were cool!" Alex whispers. "I - I had Robinson Cano...and Justin Verlander..."

"I've never heard those names before," Sam lies.

I tune out their argument, and pour myself some Cheerios. Alex has always been obsessed with a sport called baseball. He's loved it ever since Grandpa gave him some old baseball cards featuring old baseball players who had been popular a few centuries ago.

Maybe when I'm older, I'll write a story about Alex and his baseball cards. I want to be a writer, and it's a topic that's very prominent in my life. Or I could write about life on the dairy farm, providing milk and other dairy products for the district.

Maybe dairy isn't Three's main export. Of course it isn't - technology is. But every district has to have a dairy farm or two, because milk spoils when it's boxed up and sent hundreds of miles to other districts.

I brush my teeth and continue preparing for the reaping. When the others are ready, we all leave the house and walk down the long road. The elevation of District Three is pretty high, but we're at the lowest point, so the road slopes upward.

After ten minutes of walking, we get to the square. We sign in, and go to our sections. I never thought I'd be at risk of being reaped at age 10, but one never knows.

I really, really hope I'm not reaped.

.

Tissy, the escort, calls a nine-year-old to the stage. I'm weak with relief, and trying to ignore the fact that I still might be picked.

Tissy pulls out a second name. The square is so quiet, I can hear the crinkling of paper as she unfolds it.

"Misa Hodgeton!"

I freeze. Me. She chose _me_. Oh, no, I'm only ten, how will I ever win this? I try to be positive. I'm a survivor. I know about the natural world. Surely I have a chance.

The girls have cleared a path for me. I walk through it, and into the main lane in between the girls and boys. When I reach the stage, I try to give a comforting smile to Brooke, the girl already there.

She doesn't return it.

* * *

_District 3: Azure Brooke's POV:_

I put on my blue reaping dress and stare into the mirror. It fits well. It hugs my body. I'm pretty tall for a ten-year-old, I could easily pass for twelve, and the dress only goes to my knees. It was hard to find a such good reaping dress, as my mother and I never thought I'd be eligible for the reaping at the age of 10. Of course, everyone dresses up for the reaping, but my other dress is...not really a reaping dress.

I stare into the mirror. I have curly brown hair, like many people in Three, but my blue eyes are unique. Beyond my family, I know few people in the district who have blue eyes.

Today's the day of the reaping. I hate the reaping. I hate how the Capitol takes two unsuspecting kids out of each district to fight to the death. It's completely uncalled for.

I have a good reason to hate the Games - my dad died in them. He and my mom were eighteen. They had been dating all year. Then, my dad was reaped. He died in the Games. He was the ninth-to-last to die. The day he died was the day my mother found out she was pregnant with me. Several months later, I was born.

I leave the room and go to the room that serves as both the kitchen and the dining room. There, my mother is eating a piece of toast. Another piece of toast is on a plate in front of the empty seat. I sit down, and gobble down the bread.

"Good morning," my mother says, her voice lacking its usual cheerfulness. Who can blame her? It's reaping day.

"Good morning," I reply.

"How did you sleep?" she asks.

"Fine," I say quietly. I don't meet her eyes.

"Nightmare?" she guesses.

I nod.

"Same one?"

"Yes."

Once or twice a week, ever since they announced the Quarter Quell, I've dreamed the impossible happened. The escort calls my name - _my_ name - but I can't move. The Peacekeepers have to come, and they drag me to the stage. The dream fast forwards to the Games. I kill someone, some tiny little helpless tribute. I'm crying, and then I hear someone come up behind me. I turn around, and an axe is being brought down onto my head...

"Well, you won't be reaped," Mother says. "You only have ten entries. Ten out of thousands."

"There's always a chance," I point out.

"A tiny chance," Mother admits, "but trust me, you won't be reaped. I've heard rumors that the Capitol rigs the reaping, chooses who'll go in beforehand. And they have no reason to put _you_ in."

"Well, why was Father reaped?" I ask. "If the Capitol controls who goes in, why did they choose him?"

Mother struggles for an answer. "Maybe...maybe because he got me pregnant when we were still underage."

"Is that illegal?" I ask.

"It's in the Panem law book," she answers.

"The Panem law book," I repeat.

"Yeah," she says. "Every mayor has a copy. They write every law in it. It's under U for underage pregnancy."

"If it's illegal..." I start, then decide to let the topic drop. I've never really been one to like talking about these things, and usually I end up not knowing what to say. Awkward silences tend to follow awkward topics.

"We didn't know," Mother says. "And... Oh, look, we have thirty minutes. Why are we always late? Go get ready, Ziz, we're leaving in ten minutes."

I nod and leave the room, my nickname echoing in my ears. Usually, my friends are the only people who call me Ziz, and then only from time to time. But sometimes, my mother will use it. It throws me off every time.

Ten minutes later, we leave the house and walk to the square. There, we sign in. My mother kisses he on the forehead and goes to the spectators' area. I walk slowly to my section. I find room in the back.

"_There_ you are, Ziz!" a voice rings out. I look up to see my friend, Electra, pushing toward me through the already crowded 11-year-old section where she is. "I've been waiting for twenty minutes!"

"Sorry," I say. "I woke up late."

She shakes her head in mock disapproval, and then leans forward and hugs me. Then she retreat, and the smile fades from her face.

"Are you ready for the reaping?" she asks me quietly.

"No," I respond. "I keep having nightmares that I'm reaped."

"Well, how many entries do you have?" she asks.

"Twelve," I say.

She laughs. "Well, that's nothing to be worried about. I have twenty-eight!"

"That's a lot," I manage.

"Well, when I'm eighteen, I'll have twenty-eight. And if I was eighteen _this_ year, I'd have fifty-six entries." She grins at me. "Odds are, one of the eighteen-year-olds will get reaped. So long as you don't volunteer, you're safe."

"I hope you're right," I say.

.

Tissy unfolds the third name.

_She's halfway done_, I think to myself. _You're not going to be reaped. _

She clears her throat, and says, "Azure Brooke!"

_Me_.

I feel my throat clenching up, the tears coming to my eyes, the horror of the situation descending on me.

How was I reaped?

I blink the tears away, and tell myself I have to be brave. Mother has already lost her husband to the Games. I can't let her lose her daughter, too.

* * *

_District 3: Mitsu Neon's POV:_

I run my brush through my hopelessly tangled brown hair, repeating the action for ten minutes straight. It's useless; my hair refuses to be tamed. But still I battle it. There's nothing else to do to pass the hour before the reaping.

Eventually I decide it's a losing battle, and I'd be better off just leaving it be. I look good enough in my black reaping dress, though it's several sizes too big. This dress was my sister Lilith's when she was my age. She wore it for her reaping when she was twelve. I'm ten, and small for my age, so it's huge on me.

There's a knock on the door. I glance away from the only mirror we own. Artemis, my sister's seventeen-year-old friend, opens the door. Mother and Lilith come inside.

"Where were you?" I ask. It's the first thing I've said all morning.

"We got a callback," Mother says simply.

Mother and Lilith, both prostitutes for the money, had been gone all afternoon yesterday. When they came back, they hadn't told me they were going to leave _again_.

"Artemis, didn't you tell her?" Mother asks the older girl.

"I told her you were out," Artemis replies. "That's all you told me last night."

"Mitsu, you should thank Artemis," Mother tells me. "She came at five o'clock this morning to look after you."

"Thanks," I mumble.

"No problem," Artemis says. "You're like the little sister I never had."

"I like your dress," Lilith tells me. "I remember it. Wore it for my first reaping. I don't suppose you remember that?" She grins at me.

I shake my head. I was four years old. I remember Lilith being scared out of her mind, crying the whole way there, though. She made quite a scene. But I don't remember little details, like her dress.

"I wonder what we'll do if you're reaped," Lilith says thoughtfully.

"Lilith!" Mother says sharply.

Lilith grins at me. "Sorry, sorry. You only have six entries, anyways. I have forty-two. If one of us is reaped, it'll be me."

"Or me," Artemis says.

"Oh yeah? How many entries do you have?" Lilith challenges.

"Thirty-nine," Artemis replies.

"Ha."

"What, you're _glad_ you have more of a chance of dying?" Artemis says incredulously.

"No..." Lilith winks at me.

"You're impossible," Artemis says, shaking her head in exasperation.

"Thank you," Lilith says proudly.

Artemis looks at me. "See what I mean?"

I can't hold back a small grin. I nod.

"Lilith," Mother calls.

Lilith turns around. "Yeah?"

"Get dressed," Mother tells her. "We're leaving in a few minutes."

"I _am_ dressed," Lilith argues. "These count as clothes, yes?" She fingers her clothes.

"Technically," Mother admits, "but is that what you're wearing to the reaping?"

"No," Lilith mutters.

"Well, put on what you _are_ wearing to the reaping," Mother orders.

"Yes, Mother," Lilith sighs. She turns and walks to the closet the three of us share and pulls out a grey dress. It's a bit small on her. She wore it last year. That was when it fit. She wore it the year before, too. It was huge on her.

Mother also gets dressed. When they're ready, we leave the flat. Reaping in Three is early, so like many families, we'll be having it after.

The four of us join the masses walking slowly toward the square. Every illegible child is no doubt trembling with fear. I know _I_ am. I clutch Artemis's hand tightly.

The parade eventually carries us to the square. There, we sign in. The woman pricks my finger and draws out some blood. I wince. The machine beeps and I read, _Neons, Mitsu. 10/YO. _Lilith is next. The machine reads, _Neons, Lilith. 18/YO_.

I glance at my throbbing finger. Artemis pats me on the back, whispering, "That's the worst part."

Lilith and Artemis drop me off in my section near the back.

"May the odds be _ever_ in your favor," Lilith says.

I smile at her, and then the two of them go up to their sections near the front.

I hope the odds _are_ in my favor. But there's no telling. Odds are unpredictable.

.

The escort has already taken the last name. One more girl will be sentenced to death. Who will it be? _Not me_, I hope._ Please don't choose me, or Artemis, or Lilith. _

Tissy flashes the crowd a grin, then announces, "For our last girl, we have Mitsu Neons!"

I gulp loudly. I'm sure the people near me heard. They step back, and one girl shoves me forward.

I hear sighs of relief from many of the girls. But me...I've been called.

I take a small step out of my section. Then another. Right. Left. Right. Left.

When I near the front, I catch Lilith's eye. She's blinking away tears, just as I am. And Artemis, in the section behind her, is staring at me in horror.

I turn, and try to go to Lilith. The girls block me, though, and I'm shoved again.

I lose it. I try to force my way to Lilith, to Artemis, to someone. But Lilith grabs my arm.

"Go up, Mitsu," she whispers. "It's okay, go up."

But it isn't okay. I know that when the Peacekeepers come. They grab me, and drag me to the stage.

* * *

_District 3: Alexander Turbo's POV:_

I button my shirt meticulously, making sure every button goes in the right hole. This is what I'm wearing to the reaping, so I can't really screw up with it, can I? And anyways, I'm an expert with these button-up shirts, despite how easy it is to mismatch the buttons. I don't do that.

Finally, I get the shirt right. Then, I put on my long black pants. I remember how hard it was to get the salesman to believe they were for me. I'm _really_ tall for an thirteen-year-old; well past five feet. I'm the tallest in my class at school.

The salesman had stared at me when I came up to him, holding the money. "That for you, kid?" he'd asked skeptically.

"Yeah," I'd answered.

"Ha!" he barked. "More like they're for you dad."

"Nah, man, my dad's half a foot taller than me."

"No kid wears that," he'd laughed.

I had stood at the counter, hunched over by the weight of my backpack. He must've thought I was standing on a chair or something.

"Dude, I'm taller than any other thirteen-year-old you'll meet," I'd told him. "I'm buying. Here's the money."

He had decided not to argue.

When I've got the pants on, I grab my hat and stuff it on my head backwards. Minus the fancy shirt and pants, I look exactly like I usually do. My family is one of the only African American families in the district. The official term nowadays is Dark Panemian, because the Capitol doesn't like using old-fashioned terms that were common in America two centuries ago. But my family still uses the old term.

I force my shiniest black shoes onto my large feet. They hurt, but it's only for an hour. Then, when I'm on the train, I can take them off.

Yes, I'm planning to be on the train. I'm planning to leave Three. I'm going to volunteer. I know the whole world can't be like Three, like my family, my life - poor and boring. I'm going to volunteer and finally leave the district. I'm going to see. I want to explore the world out of the poverty-ridden district I call home.

The Capitol does the reapings in district order. We're third, and despite the time differences, our reaping is early. Breakfast will be after. Well, for my family. For me, breakfast will be more like breakfast and lunch and dinner and dessert - _dessert!_ - all in one. I'll be enjoying my afternoon a lot more than most of the people in the district.

I leave the house and walk briskly down the street. I see a few of my friends down the street. They wave, and I wave back. But I don't slow down, and they don't speed up, so I remain half a block ahead of them. I have plenty of friends, but no close friends.

When I get to the square, I sign in. A woman takes some blood from my ring finger. _Turbo, Alexander. 13/YO_ flashes across the screen. She nods and waves me in.

I go to my section and wait for the reaping to start. I can't wait to volunteer.

.

The four females are chosen. I watch them assemble on the stage. They won't be much competition.

The escort, I think her name's Tixy or Sissy or something, grabs the first boy's name.

"Ayen Doose!" she cries.

A tiny seven-year-old boy bursts into tears. He collapses, and the Peacekeepers come to get him.

Now is the time. "I volunteer!" I say loudly.

The boys around me stare at me.

"Are you crazy?" one hisses.

I push through my section, and saunter to the stage. Little Ayen cries tears of relief, hugging me fiercely on his way back to his section.

"A volunteer!" the escort exclaims with delight. "What's your name?"

"I'm Alexander Turbo," I say. "I'm thirteen, and I'm going to win."

* * *

_District 3: Daniel Frenolds's POV:_

When I wake up, neither of my parents are home. Of course, this isn't a surprise. My mom's an alcoholic, and she tends to disappear and leave me alone. Well, better gone than drunk.

And my father spends most of his time at the neighbor's house. He practically lives with our neighbor, Beth, who he has an affair with. It's his fault my mom's always drunk; she turned to alcohol when she found out he was cheating on her.

My parents tried to get divorced, but on that day, my mother was so drunk they deemed her "unfit to testify the truth". And so they stayed married. But my mom's always out, and my dad spends every day with the neighbor.

And so I wake up alone.

I sigh and roll out of bed. My reaping suit is on the floor where I left it last night. I slip out of my pyjamas and put on the suit. I've worn this suit every reaping since I was eight. Then, in was huge on me. Now, it's small. I'm eleven, and it's served me for four years now.

I glance in the mirror. I look like I did last year, and the year before. I still look like a little kid, even though I'm eleven. I have sandy blond hair that I wear in the short style that's common among the boys in the district.

I have blue eyes that capture my attention when I glance into the mirror. They stare at me, a childish glint deep within. It jumps out at me.

I leave my room and go to the kitchen. It's not really a kitchen, I guess, it's more like a tiny room where we keep the food, and there's a microwave and a small table.

I butter a piece of bread, and scarf it down. Then, I finish off an old apple. I'm always hungry in the morning. And in the afternoon. And at night.

When I'm done, I run to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I'm reminded of the song my health teacher used to sing to us in first grade.

_Brush, brush, _

_brush each tooth,_

_Brush each tooth, _

_Brush each tooth,_

_Brush, brush, _

_Brush each tooth,_

_After every meal._

_Brush off_

_All the food_

_All the plaque_

_All the stuff_

_Brush off_

_All that stuff_

_Make your teeth clean_

I remember singing it every time before I brushed my teeth. I'd only realized a year after learning it that it had the same tune as the old song we learned in music class, Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Finally, it's time to go to the reaping. I leave the house, closing the door firmly behind me. I walk down the street toward the square. There, I'm following the crowd of spectators, where I've gone for every previous reaping. But then, an old man taps me on the shoulder.

I turn around. He's probably seventy years old. _Whoa_. Not everyone in Three lives that long.

"Little boy," he says, "I'm going to assume you're not under five or over eighteen. Am I correct?"

I nod. "I'm eleven," I say unsurely.

"So, aren't you supposed to be going over _there_ to sign in?" He points to the mass of five to eighteen-year-olds who are in the other line.

I nod mutely, and walk over to the others.

I trudge along in the slow line. I eventually am at the front. A woman with latex gloves holds out her hand. I stare at her, confused.

"Give me your hand," she says.

Shakily, I thrust my hand into hers. She turns it so my palm is facing the sky. She squeezes my ring finger and holds a device to it.

I sharp pain shoots through my finger, and I yank my hand back. The woman glares at me, then looks down at the device. I peer at it. I read, _Frenolds, Daniel. 11/YO_.

I go to my section, and feel a sudden pang of anxiety. I look at the huge glass ball on the left of the stage. My name is in it twenty-four times. Suppose the escort reads out my name? What will I do?

.

The reaping has begun. Tissy, our escort, calls up four girls. I look at them with sympathy. Then, she calls up the first boy. A thirteen-year-old volunteers. A volunteer! I don't remember anyone ever volunteering before!

It gives me hope. If I'm reaped, someone will volunteer.

Tissy reaches in for the second name. "Our next lucky boy is...Daniel Frenolds!"

My knees go weak. I topple to the side. The boy I land on moves, and I crash to the ground. Painfully, I pull myself to my feet, sick with horror and fear.

I wait for the volunteer, but there is none.

"Would Daniel Frenolds please come to the stage?" Tissy asks. "There you are. Come on up, darling..."

The Peacekeepers come. I'm frozen with horror. A Peacekeeper grabs each of my arms, and they hoist me off of the ground. They carry me to the stage.

* * *

_District 3: Axel Mallows's POV:_

**_Flashback_**

_"Serena Cropper!" the escort shouts. "Would Serena Cropper please come to the stage?"_

_The fourteen-year-old girl stands, frozen with fear. Never did she imagine she'd be reaped. She sees four Peacekeepers coming toward her to escort her to the stage. _

_It's chilly out, but Serena is sweating. The Peacekeepers grab her arms. Slowly, she leaves her section and walks to the stage. She is trembling._

_As Serena reaches the stage, a voice cries out. _

_"No!" __A woman in her forties has broken from the spectator area. Her eyes are wild. "This is so unfair! You make a fourteen-year-old go into an arena to kill other children! You can't do this!"_

_She runs to the stage, in between he boys and the girls. She grasps the shocked Serena by the shoulders. _

_"You Capitol people, you're so selfish and unfair! You - "_

_BANG!_

_A shot rings out, and the woman slumps to the floor. She is dead. A bullet is in her head. _

**_Flashback end_**

I remember Mother's death. It was only last year, to the very day. Serena, my cousin, was reaped. Mother freaked out, and ran to the stage, yelling. The Head Peacekeeper shot her. Serena went into the Games, and died of dehydration on the second day.

Now, it's just me, my dad, and my nineteen-year-old sister, Gretchen.

I lie in bed, stuck in my memories.

The door bangs open. I tilt my head. It's Gretchen.

"Get up," she says. "You only have an hour till the reaping. Hurry up, I know you're awake."

"Why so grumpy?" I ask.

She glares at me. "Do you think I don't know what day it is?"

I bite my lip. "Reaping, or..."

"Mother." The word sends a burst of memories coursing through me. Mother reading to me, just a toddler, nine-year-old Gretchen also listening in. Mother taking me and Gretchen to the market. Mother, her blonde hair in a bandana.

"One year," I say softly.

"I _know_." Her annoyance intensified, Gretchen barks, "Get _up_ already! We don't have all day, so maybe you should be _helpful_ for once, and get ready for the reaping instead of leaving all the work to me and Father."

"Okay, okay." I look at Gretchen pointedly. "Get out. Do you really want to stay and watch me change?"

She glares at me before slamming the door.

I drag myself out of bed and go take a shower. Then, I put on my reaping clothes: a red shirt and jeans. I usually dress plainly. I did last year. Then, I run my fingers through my floppy blond hair, and leave my room.

Gretchen and Father are waiting for me, their shoes already on.

"About time," Gretchen says, annoyed. "We've been waiting for a long time."

"Patience, Gretchen," Father says. "It's only been ten minutes."

I stare at them. "Aren't we going to have breakfast?"

Father shakes his head. "After the reaping. There's not enough time."

"There would have been if he'd gotten up on time," Gretchen grumbles.

The three of us leave the small house and walk to the square. I'm silent the entire way. I have thirty-six entries in the reaping ball. What if I'm reaped?

I say goodbye to Father and Gretchen right outside of the square. Then they go to sign in as spectators, and I join the stream of frightened five- to eighteen-year-olds.

I sign in and go to the thirteen-year-olds' section. There, I wait for the reaping to begin.

.

The escort, Tissy, calls up four young girls. A nine-year-old and three ten-year-olds. That's...concentrated. Then, she calls up a tiny seven-year-old, and to my surprise, a 13-year-old boy volunteers. District Three's third volunteer of all time. Then, an eleven-year-old is reaped.

Tissy reaches into the bowl for the third time. I bite my lip. _Please, not me, not me._

"Our third lucky boy is..." _Not me, you can't choose my name. Please, not me... _"Axel Mallows!"

My breath catches in my throat. I clench my fists, and I feel tears coming to my eyes. I start trembling. No. No, no, no. She did not just call my name...

"Axel Mallows!" Tissy repeats. "Would Axel Mallows please come up?"

I take a few hesitant steps toward the stage. I must hide my fear. I'll get more sponsors if I don't appear scared.

But I can't do it. My eyes brim with tears of fear and surprise. I tremble visibly as I trudge to the stage. I lower my head so the cameras don't see the tears cutting down my face.

When I finally reach the stage, I see Gretchen in the crowd. Her face is white. She looks devastated. And Father, beside her, is crying.

* * *

_District 3: Rick Sparks's POV:_

When I wake up, the first thing I see is the extravagant suit my mother has hung on my dresser. She wants me to wear a suit to the reaping? Many boys in Three just wear jeans and a shirt. And why should I care about the reaping, anyway? I've taken no tesserae, so I only have eleven entries. I've never had to worry about the Hunger Games, and why should this year be any different?

I slide out of my comfortable bed and go take a shower. Then, I put on the suit, and look in the mirror to inspect it. It looks decent. It matches my electric blue died hair.

I leave the bathroom and go the dining room for breakfast.

"Waffles!" my mother announces when she sees me enter the room. "Ah, Rick, your favorite, right?"

I shrug. Food is food.

"And we have cherry syrup, and honey, and regular maple straight from Seven," Father adds, grinning at me. "You're going to love the cherry. Really, you should try it."

"I love your suit," Mother tells me. "Isn't it handsome?"

I shrug again. I don't really like suits.

Father turns around. "It's great! Where'd you get it?"

"The new designer shop in town," Mother answers. "The owner said only the Mayor and a few others go there."

"It's really nice," Father says. "I love it. You'll get all the ladies with it."

"I don't think he's at that age quite yet," Mother says. "He's only fifteen."

"No?" Father grins. "When _I_ was fifteen, I was quite a magnet. Wasn't I?"

Mother rolls her eyes at him.

I ignore them, and dig into my plate. I eat the waffles. They taste just like any other waffles. And the cherry syrup tastes like every other cherry syrup. I'm full before I'm done with my plate, so I scrape the remainder into the trash. Then, I take a handful of pitted cherries and eat them, one by one. I don't like cherries.

When I'm finished, I go brush my teeth. Then, I sit in my room until Mother calls me.

"Time to go, Rick," she says. "Twenty minutes until the reaping. You all ready? Did you brush your teeth? Brush your hair? Make your bed?"

"Yes, yes," I say.

"Good!" She smiles at me, and the three of us leave the house.

We go to the square and sign in. I go to the fifteen-year-olds' section and wait impatiently for the reaping to begin. I have things to do.

.

The first seven names pass quickly. My heart clenches up for the last three, but each time someone else's name is called. There's a volunteer.

Finally, there's only one name left. I wait impatiently, tapping my foot. But the escort seems to be in no rush.

"Rick Sparks!" she announces.

I feel my body clench up. No way. She did not just call my name. I took no tesserae. I only had eleven entries. There's no way I was just picked.

I decide to play it cool. Normal. As if I'm reaped and sentenced to death every day. I shove my hands into my pockets, and walk to the stage.

"Now we have our eight tributes. Let's give them a hand, shall we?" The escort claps enthusiastically. The crowd joins her, clapping halfheartedly. Without joy.

I look at my competition. A bunch of ten-year-olds, a few thirteen-year-olds, a nine-year-old, and an eleven-year-old. I'm the oldest by two years. They won't be hard to beat.

The anthem plays, and then the eight of us are led away to the Justice Building.

* * *

**A/N: That was the longest chapter I've ever written. The actual content was more the seven thousand words. **

**So, rank these tributes from favorite to least favorite.**


	5. District 4 Reaping

**A/N: I'm sorry! I'm really, really sorry! I thought I could update sooner, but I was too busy. Complicated situations. **

**So, here's the averaged list:**

**1- Misa Hodgeton**

**2- Axel Mallows**

**3- Mitsu Neons**

**4- Alexander Turbo**

**5- Azure Brooke**

**6- Brooke Ruthery**

**7- Daniel Frenolds**

**8- Rick Sparks**

* * *

_District 4: Gemini Blake's POV:_

I walk to the square with my friends, Emma and Milah, and my sister, Lilac. Note: I wouldn't be walking with Lilac had it not been reaping day. Had my parents not requested that I take her to the square. As if my sixteen-year-old sister couldn't find her own way there.

"So you're volunteering, right?" Milah asks me. We've been friends since we both started at the Academy when we were five. Well, at first we wanted to kill each other, but we try to forget that these days.

"I am," I confirm.

"_This_ year?" Lilac asks skeptically. "Why not wait until next year? You're only seventeen."

"Your point, Lilac?"

"Um..." Lilac frowns at me. "Isn't it better to volunteer when you're eighteen, when you've had the maximum training?"

I laugh. "Trust me, Lilac, I'm ready. And I'm going to win, and Kai's going to come live with me in our house in Victor's Village. You guys can stay in your house. We'll be neighbors." Dad won the Games when he was my age, so we already live in Victor's Village.

"Kai again," Lilac mutters. "Always Kai."

Kai Brooke is my boyfriend. We've been dating all year. He lives just down the block, as his father is also a victor. He never voices this aloud, not even to me, his sweetheart, but I can tell he isn't a fan of the Games. I come from a Capitol loving family, so I can tell when someone isn't like us.

"Can't Kai wait until next year?" Lilac asks.

"_He_ can," I admit. "But Emma's volunteering next year. Isn't that right, Emma?"

"Yep," she says cheerfully. "And I'm going to get past the bloodbath. Not like Coral."

Coral. Our old friend. She was reaped three years ago. She never trained, focusing solely on swim races - boy, she was fast - and she died in the bloodbath. We don't speak of her often.

"I'm going to beat her, too," I say. "No way am I dying that early on."

We reach the huge crowd pushing into the square, and we join the other kids. As we wait for them to check us, I feel a hand on my elbow. I turn around. It's Kai.

"Hi, Gemini," he says cheerfully. "Lovely day, huh?"

"Lovely day," I agree, feeling a sudden rush of affection. "Lovely, lovely."

"Speaking of lovely," Kai says with a small smile, "your dress is fabulous. I love it."

"Thank you," I say.

"Blue's my favorite color," Kai continues. "On you, it's the best combination I've ever seen."

"Thank you," I say. "Hey, I told you I was volunteering, right?" I ask after a moment, slightly guiltily.

"You did," he says, wrapping his arms around my waist. "Good luck in the arena, Gem."

"Thanks," I say. "I'll win."

"Yes, please win," Kay says. "Win for me, Gemini."

"I'll win," I repeat. "I'll win, and then you can move in with me. How does that sound?"

"It sounds lovely," he replies happily. "You just made my day, Gem."

"And you just made mine."

Kai holds my hand as we wait in the line. Lilac loses some of her maturity as she grins at me and makes little kissing sounds. Irritated, I shoo her away. I _wish _we were kissing.

After ten minutes or so, we get to the front of the line. I give the Capitol woman my ring finger. A ring from Kai sits on it. She takes some blood. _Blake, Gemini. 17/YO. _

Kai is next. I can't see his reader, but I know it says _Brooke, Kai. 18/YO._

Together, Kai and I walk to the front of the square. Kai gives me a quick hug, then retreats to the very first section on his side. I go to the seventeen-year-olds' section. There, I wait for the reaping to begin.

.

The mayor is up, first. He reads his long, dull speech about North America, and how it fell into ruins. And how Panem rose from the rubble. and how the citizens lived in peace for several generations. And then the rebellion. The Dark Days, the Treaty of Treason. He explains the Hunger Games, the competition of the districts. Their punishment. _Our_ punishment.

When he's finally done, the escort takes the stage. "Hello, District Four Hundred Forty-Four. Also known has District Four. I'm Kalus Redeem, and I'm honored to be here in this glorious district!" He bows repeatedly, and his purple hat flies off and into the boy's front section, his wig falling to the stage floor.

Kai catches it, and tosses it back to Kalus.

"Thank you, young man," the embarrassed escort says, stuffing his wig and hat onto his bald head. "Sorry about this, my district." He grins sheepishly. "Well, time for business. I'm hear, as all you know, to pick four lovely ladies and four _beau _gentlemen. You know what that means? It's French. From centuries ago."

We wait in silence. Get on with it, Kalus.

"As is the tradition, I hear, I'll start by picking the _belle _young women," Kalus says brightly. He snatches up a slip of paper from the bowl with his long, manicured nails.

We wait with baited breath. Excitement. Who will it be? Will someone volunteer?

"Gina Croud!" Kalus hoots.

Slips of paper change hands as a nine-year-old leaves her section, beaming...

"I volunteer!" I call.

Gina sends me an annoyed look, but doesn't argue. She's like the majority of people in the district, I bet: she doesn't really care about the Games. She trains just because most people do, but doesn't plan to volunteer. If she's reaped, she'll act brave and try her best to win, but if someone volunteers, she's happy with that.

I walk jauntily to the stage. _I've done it_.

Kalus grins so widely I think his face will split, but it doesn't. "Oh, yes, yay, a volunteer!" he pants in excitement. "What's your name, _jeune fille_? Oh, it means "young girl" in French..."

"My name is Gemini Blake," I announce. "I'm going to be District 4's next victor. Oh, and Kalus...I'm seventeen years old. I'm not a _young girl_ any more. Okay?"

"_Oui, jeune fille_," Kalus replies with a small grin. "Welcome, Gemini Blake."

* * *

_District 4: Katie Reed's POV:_

This year, all three of us might be reaped. Me, my seven-year-old sister, Brook, and my five-year-old brother, Carter. With five- through eighteen-year-olds in the arena, we all have a chance of going in, though none of us should. Even I would be too young to go in on a regular year. I'm eleven. Eleven, medium height, and skinny.

But also, eight tributes are being reaped per district. Four boys, four girls. What if all three of us are reaped? Me, Brook, and Carter? Everyone knows the Capitol rigs the reaping to make the Games more interesting. What if they put all three of us in?

Little Carter, he's still a baby. He could never make it. And Brook...she's so sweet, so innocent. And me... I'm only eleven. I don't want to think about what would happen if I went in. Especially this year. Underage, pitted against ninety-five others. A nightmare.

I don't like the Capitol. Or the Games. I guess this is because of my Father. He was in the rebellion a quarter century ago. The rebellion that almost succeeded. But when the Capitol started winning, when they assassinated Katniss Everdeen, the Mockingjay, when they started killing rebel leaders, Fathre decided it would be best to leave.

He left the rebellion, the rebel army, and started his life. A decade or so later, he married my mom. Then we were all born. We can't talk about his part in the rebellion these days. The Capitol hates mentions of the time it was almost overthrown, and they still kill anyone the suspect of having been involved in the Second Rebellion.

It's the morning of the reaping. The 100th Hunger Games kickoff.

I roll out of bed, my thick brown hair in a rat's nest. I brush it out and stick it into my usual ponytail. Simple and easy and regular. Nothing fancy. Just like me.

I take off my pyjamas and put on my reaping dress. It's light blue, and it goes to my knees. It's short sleeved. Blue like the ocean. My eyes, on the other hand, are green like the sea. There _is_ a difference. Just don't ask me what.

When I'm dressed, I leave my room and go to the kitchen, where my mother is making pancakes. Oh, yes. The perfect way to distract me: good food. And these pancakes definitely fall in that category.

Carter and Brook are already at the table. Brook is forcing herself to eat a pancake. Carter is shaking slightly, and his pile of pancakes looks untouched. They're scared, I can see. They don't train, and they might be forced to fight to the death next week with a bunch of teenagers.

I don't really train either, but even I have a far better chance than either of them.

I can't blame them. I'm nervous, too.

Eventually, I finish my plate. Carter doesn't look like he can eat a bite, and Brook is nibbling on the last stubs of a pancake. We sit in silence until Brook chokes down the last of her pancake.

"Are you all done?" Mother asks.

"Aren't you eating?" I ask her in return.

"I already ate," she responds. "Father and I ate when you were still in bed. The others were already here."

"I didn't wake up _that_ late, did I?" I ask.

"We started eating about twenty minutes ago," she replies. Then she asks, "So, are you all done?"

"I am," I say.

"Yeah," Brook says.

Carter doesn't say anything. He just keeps staring at his uneaten plate.

"Oh, Carter," Mother says. "Did you eat _anything_?"

Carter shakes his head.

"Why not?" She gives him a concerned look.

"I'm not hungry," he says.

Mother shakes her head. "Well, we'll bring them along. Maybe you'll be hungry on the way."

Carter shrugs.

There is a knock on the door. I frown. The little two sit, still. Even Mother doesn't seem quite sure what to do. She stares at the door uncertainly. The house is silent.

"I'll go see who that is," Mother murmurs. She slides out of her seat and walks to the door.

I hear the door creak open, and Mother says, "Oh, Sunny! Hello, hello. I suppose you're here for Katie?"

Sunny. My friend says something, and Mother replies, "I'll get her." Mother hollers, "Katie! Get ready! Sunny's here for you!"

I nod, and get out of my seat. I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Then, I slide on my shoes and return to the kitchen. Sunny is there, sitting at the table. She sees me and hops out of her seat.

We say good bye and leave the house.

"Hi, Katie," Sunny says.

"Hi," I reply.

"Good morning."

"Happy Hunger Games," I respond.

"May the odds be _ever_ in your favor," Sunny says with a laugh.

"Thank you."

"No problem." Sunny grins at me. "So, I here you're volunteering."

"_What_?" I stare at her. "Who said _that_?"

Sunny laughs. "Just kidding, Katie."

"I'm not going to volunteer," I say firmly. "I don't need to tempt fate. I'm already worried I'm going to be reaped."

"You won't be reaped," Sunny assures me. "The Capitol only chooses the _interesting_ people."

"Ha ha." I stick my tongue out at her. "Very funny."

We get to the line at the square, and wait for several minutes. We eventually get to the front, and sign in. Then, we go to the eleven-year-old section near the middle. There, we wait for the reaping to begin.

.

Kalus, the escort, loses his hat and wig. He shows a love for French. He calls the first name, and a girl volunteers. Then, he returns to the bowl.

"For our second tribute, we have...Brook Reed!" Kalus grins. "Would Brook Reed kindly join me on the stage?"

My heart stops. Not Brook. No way. How did Brook, with only three entries, get reaped? _Are_ they going to pick me and Carter, too? Oh, no, no.

Brook shuffles out of her section near the back. She moves toward the stage, her face a mask of horror. She sees me in the crowd, and her eyes beg.

I told Sunny I wouldn't volunteer. But Brook...she's only seven. She doesn't have any chance. I have more of a chance of winning. I have to do this for her. I have to.

"I - I volunteer!" I call out shakily. I stumble from my section and go to the stage. Brook, crying with relief, retreats.

I reach the stage. "I'm Katie Reed," I say.

My heart pounds. Brook is safe, but I will have to take my chances against ninety-five other tributes.

* * *

_District 4: Alaska Silverstone's POV:_

_**Flashback**_

_"Alaska, come on!" my sister, Alicia hisses impatiently. "We can't let anyone see us!"_

_I slither under the hole in the fence surrounding District Four and pop up on the other side, relieved that somehow I'd made it under without touching the electric fence. I smile and look at the trail in the ice-cloaked dirt where I went under, and Alicia before me._

_"I'm here, Alicia," I whisper, shivering. "Let's get into the woods."_

_My sister, my fellow thrillseeker, grins, and runs from the fence and into the thick forest. After a moment of hesitation, I follow her. It's my first time out of the district, and I'm not sure what to expect._

_Alicia and I trek through the forest, plodding through the snow. Here in the forest, it hasn't frozen to ice yet, but it's still slippery, and I slip, banging my tailbone. I grimace in the pain, trying not to cry out._

_"Alicia," I croak. _

_She turns around and shakes her head when she sees me on the ground. She pulls me to my feet and says, "Be careful. Can't have you getting injured. I'll have to leave you in the woods."_

_I bite my lip. I know she's joking, but I also now she's genuinely annoyed._

_We continue walking through the forest until Alicia stops in her tracks. I bump into her and grab a tree so I don't fall down and bruise my tailbone for the second time in ten minutes._

_"Alaska, look!" Alicia says in a hushed voice. "Look!"_

_"What?" I push around my sister and find myself looking at a clear, frozen pond. "Oh, wow, wow."_

_"I'm going to walk on it," Alicia announces. "Care to join me, little sister?"_

_"What, testing the laws of natural selection?" I laugh. "No, my tailbone's bruised. It hurts. I'll stay here. You can go on the pond. I wish I could, but I don't want to hurt my tailbone _again_."_

_Alicia smiles, and says, "Don't worry, Alaska. I won't be long."_

_She steps onto the ice. I wince, expecting it to crack under her feet. But it doesn't. It stays strong, unbroken. Alicia smiles, I can see it, and takes another step. And another. Step by step, she walks to the middle of the pond. She turns around triumphantly, a grin on her face._

_"See, Alaska? I made it to the - "_

Crack!

_Alicia looks down in horror. I jump to my feet. Cracks are webbing from under my sister's feet, spreading throughout the pond. The ice wasn't think enough, despite the low temperatures._

_"Run, Alicia!" I scream. "The ice is breaking! You need to - "_

_A chunk of ice breaks off, and around the gap, the ice begin to crumble. The hole widens. Alicia yelps and jumps over the gap, running to me, running, running. __My sister slips in her haste and falls to the ice right by the gap. The force of her fall breaks off another chunk, and the ice begins to crumble even more rapidly. _

_Alicia's lower body slips into the freezing water, and she screams aloud. But she grasps the edge of the ice tightly, not letting go. Not giving up. But it's still crumbling. I take a few hesitant steps onto the pond. I have to save my sister. I have to._

_"No!" Alicia yells. "No, Alaska! Don't come! You'll just fall in too! Get away! Tell Mom and Dad I - "_

_The piece of ice Alicia is holding disintegrates, and my sister falls. She is submerged beneath the surface of the pond. Then, the ice cracks several feet away, and her dark head surfaces. But then she sinks under again._

_She does not come back up._

_A moment of silence. And then I open my mouth and scream. _

**_Flashback over_**

I remember that day. It wasn't that long ago, the freezing winter my sister drowned in the pond. The loss, both of my sister and of my voice. I'd screamed and screamed, I'd screamed so loudly everyone in the district a mile away surely heard me. I screamed until I could scream no more.

I can't talk these days. Well, I can, but only sometimes. For the most part, I communicate with others through pen and paper. Whenever I must.

Today is the reaping for the one hundredth Hunger Games. The fourth Quarter Quell. There will be eight tributes, from five-year-olds to eighteen-year-olds. I'm not sure what'll happen if I'm reaped. I'm strong, I guess, and the years have hardened me.

I roll out of bed and put on my reaping clothes. I brush my long black hair. My pale blue eyes stare at me coldly, reflected by the mirror. The Ice Queen. That's what they call me. That's who's standing here, reflected in front of me.

I leave my room and enter the neighboring room. Alicia's room. Where she used to sleep. Where she used to be. Back when we were young. Those old good days.

Up on Alicia's dresser sits an assortment of broken trophies and medals. Broken with time, you might think. You'd be wrong. No, if time was their only foe, they'd be in good shape still, polished and shiny as when my sister last cared for them. Well, maybe not polished and shiny after all these years, but they'd be whole and unbroken.

No, the damage was inflicted by yours truly. Me. Alaska Silverstone, sister of their owner. After Alicia's death, I changed. I used to be a happy-go-lucky little girl without a care in the world. But when my sister died, everything changed. I was mad at her for dying, leaving me here. I was mad at my parents for being so _out of it_, being so concerned with me instead. And, of course, I was mad at the Ice Queen.

I'm not the sort of person who can shake those feelings off. No, that's not me at all. I took my anger out on Alicia's belongings. I tried to hurt my dead sister even more. I hope she felt it, wherever she is.

"Alaska!" Mother calls. "Breakfast!"

I don't reply. I sit down on Alicia's bed and feel the quilt on it. Alicia once slept here. She lied where I'm sitting right now. She slept here, she sat here, she is here... I am here, too.

"Alaska!" Mother repeats loudly. "Come here! Breakfast!"

When I fail to respond, Father calls, "Alaska, listen to me! You can either have breakfast now or no breakfast at all!"

I groan and trudge to breakfast. There, my parents are already eating. They look at me, disapproving.

"Why didn't you come when I first asked?" Mother asks me.

I shrug. I scarf down my breakfast and tug on my sandals.

"Where are you going, young lady?" Father demands. "You get right back here - "

The door slams behind me, cutting him off. I walk down the street to the square.

.

The first two tributes are volunteers. Kalus, the escort, babbles in French in his excitement. _French_. Foreign languages are forbidden in the districts, though some brave people still exercise them. But I guess in the Capitol people can take courses.

"Now for tribute _trois_," Kalus says brightly. "Let's see...Alaska Silverstone!"

My heart drops. My throat clenches up. Me, the Ice Queen, in the Hunger Games? I've never even trained... I took no tesserae. I had thirteen entries. Some eight-year-olds probably have more than I do! So how was _I_ reaped?

I swallow my questions and step out of the seventeen-year-olds' section. Slowly, I walk to the stage.

"Alaska, Alaska," Kalus says thoughtfully. "A _belle_ name quite suitable for a _belle jeune fille_. How old are you, seventeen?"

I nod mutely. He's odd. This whole situation is.

* * *

_District 4: Avalon Hale's POV:_

"You're so lucky, Ford," I say fondly.

"How'm I funny?" my little brother asks.

"_Lucky_," I correct. "You're lucky, lucky."

"Why?" Ford inquires.

"You don't have to worry about being reaped," I say quietly.

"Reaped?"

"Reaped."

"What's _reaped_?" Ford asks.

"Well," I say, "you remember last summer, when everyone gathered in the square? And the French guy said two names? Remember, we were late, so we had to stay right out of the square?"

Ford nods. "The girl fainted? And Mom was there."

I nod. I try to ignore the fact that he mentioned our mother. She died last year. Ford doesn't have many memories of her. I do, though, and her absence stings. "Yep. So, Kalus will - "

"The French guy?"

"Yup, the French guy," I agree. "He's going to say two names, and the people he calls will be taken to the Capitol - "

"The city."

"The city," I confirm. "They'll have to fight to the death. You remember the Hunger Games? We watch it on the television every year."

Ford frowns and shakes his head.

"Well, twenty-three of them die," I continue. "So I don't really want to go into the Games. I'm ten years old, and I have ten entries, so I might be reaped. But you're only four. You're safe."

"Safe," Ford repeats.

"Yes, safe." I smile at him. "Here now, let's get your shirt on."

He stares at me in confusion. "My shirt _is_ on."

"No, your _dress_ shirt."

"Oh... I'm not wearing a dress, Avalon. _You_ are."

I shake my head at him. "No, I mean your formal button-down. That's right, you're not wearing a dress."

I help my grinning brother into his reaping clothes, and then we head to the table for some cereal. A quick breakfast before the reaping. I pour Ford some Apple Jacks, his favorite. Most of us have the green District Four Standard, or the common Cheerios. But sometimes the stores sell other kinds, old kinds. Ford has wanted to marry Apple Jacks ever since he discovered it four months ago.

Dad walks into the kitchen. "Hi," he says. "Munching on some cereal?"

"Yeah," I respond. One year ago, we were eating bagels. I sat next to Dad, Ford was on Mother's lap... It was just a month before she died. I prefer not to think back.

"Apple Jacks, I see," Dad observes. "Expensive. Sent from District Nine to the Capitol for sugaring. You know, they used to color them. Green and pink, I think. But these days, the coloring's only for the Capitol." He says it mildly, as you might state the weather. But there is a layer of resentment in his voice, somewhere down there.

"Don't worry, Dad," I say. "I never have it. I leave it for Ford."

"That's nice of you," Dad replies. "Personally, I prefer District Four Standard. Good old seaweed and grain." He smiles.

We finish our meal and head to the square for the reaping. We part for the sign in. I join the stream of five- to eighteen-year-olds. _Hale, Avalon. 10/YO_ flashes across the Capitol woman's screen. I go to my section and wait for the reaping to start.

.

The first two girls are volunteers. The third is reaped. I'm safe so far. Only one more name to go. Nothing can happen, right? My luck isn't _that_ bad. I wait for Kalus to draw the name.

Kalus rummages around the bowl for maybe twenty seconds. He finally chooses a name. He unfolds it slowly. It's done. Either I'm a tribute or I'm not a tribute...

"Avalon Hale!" Kalus crows. "Will the lovely lady _Avalon Hale_ please step to the stage?"

My heart skips a beat, and speeds up. _Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom_. I clench my fists, willing this to be a mistake. It can't be a reality. I only have ten entries. Only ten slips...

"Avalon Hale," Kalus repeats. "Oh - there you are! _Mon dieu_, what a lovely _jeune fille_."

My heart pounds in my ears. I take another step out of my section. _I'm sorry, Ford. I don't know how this happened. I'm sorry you've lost Mother, and now me. I'll try to win, to come back, but I can't guarantee it_.

I reach the stage, and Kalus helps me up. I'm in the Games now, and there's nothing I can do about it.

* * *

_District 4: Tristan MacNeil's POV:_

You know how they say lives are stories, and all stories are turning points? It's a Capitol-designed phrase, so I hate to agree with it, but I do. Maybe your turning point is when you find your job, or a girlfriend, or you graduate from school. Turning points can happen at any point in your life. They tend to strike quickly and without warning.

Me? The turning point in _my_ life was three years ago.

I was eleven, not yet reaping age. But of course the Capitol said I still had to come to the reaping. So I followed my mother, my father, and my older brother, Jake, my senior by six years, to the square.

I don't remember the girl. She was fifteen, I think. A volunteer. But then they called out the boy's name. It was Jake MacNeil. My brother. Now, I knew my brother wouldn't last long in the Games, and I was right. He was decapitated on the first day. My brother, Jake MacNeil, hero of both my parents, dead.

That wasn't all of it. My father, depressed at the death of his favorite son, ran away. Left the district. Died in the wild, no doubt. And my mother, she's raised be alone ever since. Tried to adjust. She tries to love me; and she does, I know it. But I'll never be Jake, who brought her pride, Jake, her firstborn son. No, I'll always be number two. Tristan MacNeil, the teenage rebel.

That was the turning point for both me and my mom. For the family. And it changed me as a person, too. I used to be the quiet little one. The subdued little MacNeil. But when the Capitol killed my brother - I blame them completely - and my father disappeared, I realized who the enemy was: the Capitol. My rebel personality awakened. I realized my greatest wish was that the Capitol would fall. It hasn't.

That was my turning point. When my life was turned upside-down. Now I'm fourteen, the rebel of the family. The solitary boy who's brother died in the Games, who's father ran away. That's me to the rest of the district. Because they obviously can't know I wish for a rebellion. That would be the end of Tristan MacNeil.

I don't like turning points.

Mother calls me for breakfast. Hastily, I throw on my reaping clothes and go to the table, where she is sitting.

She looks up and nods at me. Oh, she's noticed my presence. What an improvement.

"Good morning," I say. "What a _lovely _event to look forward to today, hmm?"

Mother shrugs. "Three year anniversary."

I suck in my cheeks to my teeth to assume a normal face. How long can my Mother go without mentioning Jake?

"That's one day, nine hours, and...six minutes," I say, looking at the leather watch strapped to my wrist.

Mother looks up. "Sorry?"

"One day, nine hours, and six minutes since you last mentioned Jake," I mutter.

"You're counting?" Mother gives me an annoyed look. "Jake wouldn't do something like that."

I raise my eyebrows. "So I'm dishonoring his memory?"

Mother sighs. "Well... Yes, you are. I wish you were more like him."

"You'd like me to be reaped and be decapitated on the first day?"

Mother glares at me. "_No_, I'd like it if you had his attitude."

"Because I'm planning on going in," I say.

Mother stares at me. "_What_?"

"I'm going in," I repeat. "I'm volunteering."

Mother is silent for a while. Then she says, "Really?"

I nod. I wonder if she'll ask why. Because then I'll have to tell her that I'm doing it for Jake - and in hope that she'll finally be proud of me. Maybe she'll say she is. Maybe even now.

But that isn't really her attitude.

"_Tristan_!" Mother exclaims. "Stupid! You can't _volunteer_! What are you trying to do? Mock your brother's death? Mock his fate?"

I glance at my watch, trying to hide my disappointment. "That's two minutes and three seconds."

Mother slams her fist into the table. "How can you be so selfish, Tristan? Do you even realize that I've lost my husband and my eldest son? Do you realize how hard that makes life? Without my younger son going around, mocking his dead brother, not caring how it might make other people feel?"

I try to appear bored. "Five seconds. Not your best time."

"This isn't a game, Tristan!" Mother growls. "Why can't you be more like him? He was a good son. He brought pride to the family. He was a good young man. He helped those who needed help, was as charming as they get. But you have no respect! You go around not paying attention to others, not being a good person, not being friendly. Can't you even _try_?"

My face grows hot. "I try! I'm going to volunteer so I can win for him! So the Capitol knows we MacNeils aren't just the weak family of a boy who died the first day of the Games three years ago. Because really, in their eyes, in _others'_ eyes, that's all we are. I won't stand for that! I try, Mother, I try. Do you think _I'm_ happy they're gone?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but I storm out of the room. I brush my teeth and shove on my black, polished boots. I leave the house, slamming the door behind me.

So she doesn't want me to volunteer. She thinks I'm further disgracing Jake's memory. Well then. Too bad for her. She's only cemented my decision.

.

Kalus is annoying. He's the pampered escort. He blabbers in French. So in the Capitol they teach old languages. They don't allow that in the district. All I've heard in my lifetime is English, standard Panem English, and a few words of muttered Spanish from the 2% of the population here in District Four who still speaks it.

Kalus picks the four girls, shouting out the names. I remember three years ago. He called my brother's name. He was the one. He was the one who chose my brother for the Games. It's his fault Jake is dead. It's his fault my life's so screwed up. Everything is the fault of this pudgy, short Capitol man who stands in front of me.

"And now we must chose the four _beaux_ young gentlemen to represent District Four," Kalus says brightly. "To begin with - Maynar Cropp."

A twelve-year-old boy with yellow hair walks from his section. No one shouts out to volunteer, so I say the fated words.

"I volunteer!"

Maynar shoots me a bored look. He seems to say, _Well, whatever. Good luck, man. _

I walk to the stage, where Kalus shakes my hand.

"_Splendide_! A volunteer!" Kalus exclaims. "What is your name, young man?"

"Tristan MacNeil," I answer. "I'm fourteen years old."

"MacNeil," Kalus repeats. His eyes gleam.

* * *

_District 4: Zander Shore's POV:_

When my mother wakes me up the morning of the reaping, I'm so tired I can barely lift my head from my pillow. She snaps her fingers in my face, and I turn my head sideways.

"What's with you, Zander?" Mother asks. "It's reaping day. Aren't you excited?"

"Yeah," I mutter. "Just tired."

"Well, get up soon," she says.

"Geddout of my room," I mumble.

"Okay," she says. "But be dressed and at the table in fifteen minutes."

She leaves my room, and I stay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I'm too tired to get up. I blame my late night exploits. See, when I'm stressed, or just want to get away, I sneak out of the house in the middle of the night, breaking the curfew law, and go to the shore to watch the waves. We live right near the water, at the edge of town. The Peacekeepers are often less in number near the northern shore, so far away from the port.

Last night, I had an important decision to make: should I volunteer? I'm only fourteen, but I'm trained. I've went to the Academy for years now. And this is the only Quarter Quell I'll ever be eligible for, assuming the reaping ages don't extend again. (They did for the third Quarter Quell. Enobaria from District Two won. She was...thirty? I don't know. I've only ever seen clips.)

So, I spent three hours on the shore, debating whether I should volunteer or not. When I came back, it was four in the morning. I got almost no sleep. Can you blame me for being tired?

I can't.

But it was me.

So I don't really get a voice in the matter, I guess.

So you decide.

When I finally forced myself to get out of bed, I brush my black hair and put on my reaping clothes: white shorts and a bright blue t-shirt. I rehearse the reaping: _I volunteer! _I run to the stage. _I'm Zander Shore, District Four's next victor_.

I leave my room and go to the kitchen table. My mother is serving up waffles. My Father sits with his notebook on his lap, hastily scrawling diagrams and notes.

Mother sits down, and picks up a book. She owns the District Four Library, and she believes that she has to read every book in it. I swear, she's even read _Fishie Family_, the classic children's book written before the Dark Days by famous author Clam Chard. It has about fie words per page, and huge illustrations. Honestly, it's sort of embarrassing, having a mother who reads classics for two-year-olds.

Father glances up at me as I sit down. "Nice shirt," he says. "Matches your eyes. And the stereotypical sea."

He says the last part bitterly. Father's a sea captain, so he's seen more of the sea than almost anyone else. He strongly disapproves of the idea that the sea is blue. Apparently some people think that - people from other districts, and those poorest families who live on the outskirts of Four, who supposedly never see the sea.

The rest of us know that the ocean isn't one color. It's a mishmash of blues, greens, grays. It changes daily.

Father feels rather strongly about this.

Ten minutes later, we leave for the reaping. I meet my friend, Larykn, at the bottleneck at the sign in place. She's fifteen, so we won't be in the same section.

"Hi!" she says.

"Hi," I respond. "Ready for the reaping?"

Larykn rolls her eyes at me. "Of course. Maybe I'll volunteer next year. Or maybe this year..."

"Well, I'm volunteering this year," I say. "I'd prefer you change your mind. I'd prefer not to kill you."

"Fine," she mutters, sulking. "Go ahead and win, Shore. I expect you want me to root for you?"

I don't get a chance to respond. We've reached the front of the line. The Capitol woman takes some blood, and _Shore, Zander. 14/YO_ flashes across the screen of her device.

I leave Larykn and go to my section.

.

Kalus, Mr. Annoying French Escort, picks four girls, I don't really pay attention other to realize that Larykn doesn't volunteer. Well, that just clears my path.

Kalus picks the first boy's name. I'm going to volunteer, but a boy in my section (Tristan, I recognize him, he's weird) does. I glare at my classmate. _Come on, let me volunteer_.

Kalus draws the second name. I don't hear it; I only hear my words echoing in the square.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

I march jauntily to the stage, shooting Larykn a satisfied, smug look as I pass her section.

"I'm Zander Shore! I'm going to be District Four's next victor!"

* * *

_District 4: Griffin Tides's POV:_

In my hands I cup my hook. Made of wood, it hangs from a leather rope around my neck. It's all I have left from my parents. They died when I was a baby, the people at the community home tell me. I was dropped off on the doorstep, with a letter naming me and all that. I was left with my cousin, who is two years older than me. _Was_ two years older than me. She died.

Three years ago, when she was fourteen years old, Kalus, the escort, called her name. She died three days in. I was twelve at the time. Twelve years old, all alone in the world.

But then I met Flora Ivory.

Flora's parents died in the epidemic six years ago. She's lived in the community home ever since, but I never really noticed her until I was thirteen. I never noticed how beautiful she was, with her long, light hair and her flower blue eyes. The way she tossed her braided locks. The way her slender hips swayed whenever she heard music.

Turns out Flora liked me, too. She became my girlfriend. I will do anything for the sweet, pretty girl who captured my heart.

When I wake up on reaping day, I put on black pants, and a black vest over a blue shirt. I sweep my impossible brown hair out of my eyes. How Flora finds this action beautiful I don't know.

Ahead of the other boys, I rush to the cafeteria. I grab my oatmeal - cold, like usual - and find a seat on a bench, saving the spot next to me for - guess who - Flora.

She comes in a minute later, wearing a deep green dress more beautiful than anything else you can get in the community home. I stare, my spoon clattering to the bottom of my bowl.

Flora swoops in with her oatmeal, sitting down by my side.

"Why hello, Griffin," she says with mock formality. "How fares my boyfriend? Or maybe I should ask, how fareth thee?"

I choke down a laugh. "Well, quite well. Thank you for asking. Where did you get 'how fareth thee'?"

Flora grins, dropping the act. "Old English, Like, really old. A few centuries ago. So, you should've asked, 'where getteth it thee'? Or something like that... That's just the basic idea. I'm probably far off, but whatever. Nobody talks like that anymore."

"Oh." I blush. "Beautiful dress. I love it."

Flora smiles at me. "Thank you! It - it was my mother's. It's never fit before now."

I nod sagely. "It's beautiful."

"I love _your_ clothes, too," Flora tells me.

"Thanks," I say. "But I'm afraid they don't compete."

Flora gives me a quick hug. "They compete."

We finish out breakfast. Some of the others are complaining like they do every morning. _The oatmeal's cold_, and _Yucky!_ and all of that. But I feel like I'm floating on a cloud of happiness. Flora is with me. Maybe she's the source.

Take out the maybe.

And add some hearts.

_Red_ hearts. Remember to color them in.

Or pink.

It doesn't matter - just hearts.

No, not like the organ. I mean the _shape_.

The _shape_, doofus. Haven't you seen a heart before?

Uh...that was a rhetorical question.

"Hey, Griffin," Flora says.

"Uh?" I stare at her.

She laughs, tossing her light braid over her shoulder, exposing her neck. Her neck, craned and pale, smooth and...

"Yoo-hoo Griffin." Flora calls my name, waving in front of my face.

I blink. "Sorry, sorry. Sorry. Uh, if I say I'm sorry do I get...?"

Flora laughs again. "I asked you if you were going to volunteer. And then you could leave the community home and live in Victor's Village, and maybe I could move in with you?"

I stare at her. "You want me to _volunteer_?"

Flora grins at me. "Well..."

I shake my head. "I could never make it. And you know if I promised to, I would volunteer. Even though I'd die. Don't make me volunteer, please. But of course, if you really want me dead..."

"You wouldn't _die_," Flora scoffs. "You could _totally_ win. You're not as stuck up and stuff as all those trained Career guys. The rich ones who went to the Academy."

I stare at her. "You - you think I could _win_?"

Flora smiles at me. "Griffin, you're the cutest, nicest, best boy I've ever met. The Capitol will love you, for one. And inside, you're strong. You could win, Griffin. You could beat them all."

I shake my head. "Flora, I'm not as great as you think, then." Then I gulp. Wrong message there. I open my mouth to correct myself, but Flora interrupts me.

"You're silly, Griffin," she says affectionately. "You're great. Really great. Don't ever believe otherwise. It won't be true."

I smile at her. "Well, then I'm not as _capable_ as you think. Well, fine, I would probably have a chance, I guess. Maybe I'd make it pretty far. And if I won, I'd totally invite you over to Victor's Village."

"Invite?" Flora gives me a pouty face, like a small child denied ice cream.

"Forever," I correct. "I'd invite you over _forever_. I'd love that. Eternity with Flora Ivory." I sigh.

When we finish breakfast, we leave the home and walk to the square, hand in hand. I can focus only on the warm, soft, unblemished hand I hold.

When we get to the square, we get in line and sign in. _Tides, Griffin. 14/YO _flashes across the screen of the Capitol woman's device. I look over and see the other screen. It says, _Ivory, Flora. 14/YO_.

We go to the fourteen-year-olds' section, but on different sides, and wait for the reaping to begin.

.

Kalus picks four girls. I listen nervously, but Flora isn't called. Good. She's safe. But then Kalus turns to the ball with my name in it thirty times.

I bite my lip. _Not me. Not me. Please, not me_. It isn't me. Some kid from my section volunteers. I recognize him, sort of. But I don't really know him. He's just that kid. You know.

Kalus picks another boy. There's another volunteer, also someone in my section. This one I don't even recognize, though. District Four's big. I'm relieved, though. If I'm reaped, someone will volunteer.

Kalus picks a third name. He unfolds it. I bite my lip again. _Not me, please, not me..._

"Tribute number _trois_ will be the great and powerful...Griffin Tides!"

I feel quite sympathetic for the poor kid who's just been reaped. I wonder how old he is. I look around, trying to find him...and that's when Kalus's words sink in.

He called my name. _I'm_ the third tribute.

My first emotion is disbelief. I wore my lucky pendant. My wooden hook. From my parents. It was supposed to make sure I _wasn't_ reaped. So how did Kalus call my name?

The comes shock. _Me_. Somehow, against all odds, _I_ am the tribute. I'm going to be participating this year. How? Why? Out of thousands of slips, only thirty were mine.

My hands clench at my sides and, feeling like a stiff wooden soldier toy, I leave my section. I walk to the stage, waiting.

Waiting for the volunteer.

The first two tributes were volunteers. Surely someone will volunteer for me, too. Right?

But no one does.

I will be a tribute.

I wonder if I can win.

* * *

_District 4: Aaron O'Brien's POV:_

"Caspian, we're matching!" I crow.

My little brother, seven years old, is also wearing a white shirt and tan pants. He looks a lot like me in other ways, too - we both have messy brown hair and blue eyes. The others, 12-year-old Cora and 5-year-old Morgan, have longer hair. But the blue eyes are universal.

"We are," Caspian agrees. "We're mirror images!"

I frown. "Really? But we're not, you know, _flipped_."

"Flipped?"

"Yeah," I say. "Flipped. Backwards. Like in a mirror."

Caspian shrugs. "Well, whatever. More importantly... Aaron, what if I'm reaped?" He gives me the I'm-a-cute-little-kid-so-love-me look. Well, mix in some fear and uncertainty, and you'll be closer.

I laugh. "Reaped? Caspian, you're only seven. You only have six entries. I have ten entries, and Cora has sixteen. And some of those older kids have more than sixty entries. There's no way you'll be reaped, Caspian, trust me."

He nods, but doesn't say anything.

The silence gets uncomfortable, so I say, "Happy Hunger Games."

Caspian finally cracks a smile. "May the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

I grin. "That's right. If the odds are in our favor, we won't be reaped. So, let's go to breakfast now. Aren't you excited to see the girls? It's their first reaping, too! You can share thoughts."

Caspian punches me in the side. "It's _your_ first reaping, too, Aaron. You're nine."

"It is," I admit.

"So stop acting like you're so much more experienced than the rest of us." Caspian gives me a reproachful look. "Well, let's go."

We leave the room and walk to the kitchen table. Cora and Morgan and our parents are already there. The girls are wearing white dresses, and white headbands. Mom and Dad and Cora are eating - well, nibbling, in Cora's case - but Morgan hasn't eaten a bite. She looks sick to her stomach.

"You okay, Morgan?" I ask my little sister.

She glances up at me, and nods slightly.

"Good." I smile halfheartedly at her.

"Here the latecomers are," Cora remarks, sounding bored.

"Latecomers?" I repeat. Usually I would have began an argument just for the sake of it, but I'm not in the mood. Cora doesn't seem like she is, either. The thought of the reaping has taken our energy.

"Latecomers," Cora says.

I roll my eyes and pour myself a bowl of District Four Standard. It made up 70% of stores' cereal supply as of last December. I put the bowl at my place in between Dad and Morgan, and then I go back and pour Caspian a bowl.

"So, you're scared, aren't you," Cora says. It isn't a question, but I treat it as if it is one.

"No," I lie. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I'm not scared."

"Ha-ha," Cora says. "You're only nine. You wouldn't normally be in the reaping this year, so of course you are."

"You're only twelve," I counter. "It's not like you're at the top of the spectrum."

"_The top of the spectrum_?" Cora mimics.

I give her an exasperated look. "You know. Eighteen. The oldest."

"I'm older than _you_ are," she points out.

I open my mouth to respond, but then Morgan cuts in.

"Stop it, you two," she says quietly.

"You're worried?" Cora asks. "Seriously, Morgan. You only have two entries, right? Two entries in that whole bowl. I have sixteen. There's not a chance you'll be reaped."

Morgan nods.

"So, Aaron Chicken," Cora begins, "you've officially cemented your chicken DNA, so - "

"Stop it!" Morgan pleads. "I - I don't want..."

Cora sticks her tongue out at me; her twelve-year-old tongue that she must believe is superior to all others. But she's quiet, so that tongue must realize that sometimes the will of the wise five-year-old must stand above even it.

"It's nice to know you all are getting along," Dad says sarcastically.

"Aaron Chicken," Cora mutters.

"Cora Goose."

"Oh, is that the best you can do?" Cora asks, raising her voice slightly. "_Cora Goose_? You just can't argue that you have the DNA of a chicken."

"Cora Goose," I say. "Can you deny your citizenship in Goose World?"

"I can," she says. "However, _you_ are officially a chicken. Aaron Chicken to be precise."

"Are you kidding me?" Dad exclaims. "Chickens are _awesome_. Go chickens! Go chickens!"

Cora sticks her tongue out at me again. I ignore her.

"Half an hour until the reaping," Mom announces.

"Only?" Caspian says. "Time flies like a bird."

"A bird with wings," I correct, just to say something.

Of course, I get the you're-crazy look from my little brother. Oh, well.

"Get ready, get ready," Dad chants. "Ten minutes until departure. Repeat, ten minutes until departure. Take your seat on the airplane, settle in, and stand clear of the closing doors."

I stare at him. "_What_?"

"What's an airplane?" Caspian asks.

"It was like a hovercraft," Dad explains. "Except it had wings to catch the air. And it was really loud. Hovercrafts took their place right before the Dark Days. And now they're out of fashion."

"Get ready!" Mom reminds us. We get ready, and ten minutes later, we leave the house.

As we walk to the square, Cora and Caspian blabber about statistics and random other stuff. I don't listen. I'm too worried. Like Morgan, I can only walk in silence, in fearful anticipation.

To be reaped or to not be reaped?

.

The four girls are called. Cora and Morgan are safe, to my relief. But me? Am I? Kalus calls a boy. Oh, good, it's not me or Caspian. There's a volunteer. Another boy is called. Not me or Caspian. Another boy volunteers.

But then Kalus reaches in for the third slip of paper. "Our final _garcon_ today will be Aaron O'Brien!"

I freeze. My muscles are paralyzed. My brain, too, seems to be. Only the murky thoughts drip through, like molasses. One of which is...I've just been reaped. Me. _Me_.

As it turns out, my eye muscles aren't paralyzed. Well, whatever makes the tears. That's right - I start crying. Tears drip down my face. Horrible, huge, despairing tears. Because I know I can't win. I have no chance, none at all. And my lip is quivering, too. Another few muscles that aren't paralyzed. But the rest of me is.

At least, until the boy behind me shoves me forward.

I break out of my trance. My hands shoot out to break my fall. I wince as they scrape against the asphalt below. I stand up, my eyes bubbling tears. I shuffle forward, to the stage.

I pass Cora's section on the way. I can almost hear her snort. _Aaron Chicken. Crying, are you?_

Or maybe she'd be horrified, too. She certainly knows I can't win.

I finally reach the stage. By then, a river of tears is streaming endlessly down my face. I'm making those throaty gasps that come with sobbing. She escort, Kalus, helps me to the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a hand for our eight tributes from District Four!" Kalus cries.

I wonder how I'll go. Will I be tortured? Will I drown? Will I fall into a lava pit? Will a mutt get me?

To win or not to win?

To die or not to die?

* * *

**A/N: That chapter took so long to write. It's almost 10,000 words. **

**I just want to say that I have _nothing_ against chickens. **

**So, rate these tributes from favorite to least favorite. **


	6. District 5 Reaping

**A/N: Sorry, everyone who thought I'd died. (I almost did a few times, but I'd prefer not to talk about that.) My computer broke down shortly after I posted the last chapter. I sent it in for repairs, and I just got it back on Friday. **

**On a brighter note, this SYOT is officially closed! All of the spots are filled. **

**ProsePoesy101's SYOT is in desperate need of tributes, so I suggest you submit.**

**Here are the standings for District Four:**

**1- Avalon Hale**

**2- Katie Reed**

**3- Aaron O'Brien**

**4- Tristan MacNeil **

**5- Alaska Silverstone**

**6- Zander Shore**

**7- Griffin Tides**

**8- Gemini Blake**

* * *

_District 5: Maddie Nightshade's POV:_

I can't stand it. I'm going to stand in a section in the square today for the reaping. I might be reaped. It's an event I wouldn't have thought even possible before the summer I was twelve. That _should_ be my first year. But no, the Quarter Quell has ordered that even I, nine-year-old Maddie Nightshade, must enter the reaping. Wonderful midwinter gift, wouldn't you agree?

Let's glance over to the bed by my right. On it lies a still form, but I know my elder sister is awake. This is Mika, Mika Nightshade, my twelve-year-old sister. I cannot see her face, for it is cloaked by her light brown hair, which matches my own. Mika should be the baby of the reaping group; the youngest age. But no, she is in the middle. Instead of six entries, she has forty-eight, as she, being Mika, insisted on taking tesserae for the entire family.

And now let's turn our attention to the bed on my left. It's occupant, sweet little six-year-old Aloe, has left. The sheets are rumpled and the pillow has fallen to the floor. Aloe must have joined our parents in the neighboring room. And who can blame her? Only six years old, Aloe might also be reaped today. She has two entries in the bowl, three fewer than I do. But what if they pull her name out? She must have had a nightmare. I know I did.

The minutes go past. The clock on the wall ticks the seconds. _Tick tock. Tick tock._ With each passing minute, the reaping is one minute closer. I manage to comfort myself, as I do others. _They won't pick you, Maddie. Think about it. In that huge glass bowl, there are thousands and thousands of slips. Your name is on five. Only five. Aloe has only two. And Mika... Well, Mika still has only a tiny, tiny chance of being picked. Hey, some eighteen-year-olds have a hundred entries! You took no tesserae. There's no chance you'll be reaped._

I try to relax. As my head finally sinks down onto my pillow, the door opens. I open my eyes. It's Mother. As I watch, Aloe scrambles under her arm and goes over to the wardrobe the three of us share.

"Get up," Mother says loudly. "It's reaping day, as I'm sure you know. Aloe certainly did. Get up, or you'll be late, and they'll hunt you down and then take you to prison or the community home."

Mother sounds more irritable than usual. Aloe must've been continuously reminding her that today's the reaping, and all three of us are eligible. Mother's tough, and her emotions always seem to be channeled into hardness.

Mika and I know better than to argue. We get out of bed and begin our daily rituals of getting ready. But this morning is different from any other. A murky cloak of fearful, uneasy silence has fallen over us. We dress is fancier clothing, the nicest clothes we own. For me, that means a simple white dress that Mika wore before me, and my mother before her. I brush my hair out more carefully than I usually do. Mother always pesters me, talking about impressions and such, but even I know it's always more important on reaping day. This is the Capitol we're talking about today, not just the average District 5 crowds.

I glance at Mika's deep blue dress and wonder if one day I'll wear that dress, too. She got it from our neighbor, a rather young widow, who's daughter died of smallpox last year, at age fourteen, right before the father.

"You look lovely," I tell Mika.

She smiles at me. "Thanks. So do you."

I shake my head. "You're dress is really great. I hope I wear it when I'm your age. I mean, if you're not wearing it. But you'll be fifteen then, so I doubt it'll fit you."

"You can have it next year, if you want," Mika offers. "I - I can borrow one of Mother's."

Somehow, I grin. "I'm not sure she'd let you, but thanks."

"No problem." Mika turns back to the mirror and goes back to fighting the tangles in her hair, and I leave the bedroom and head to the dining room, Aloe right behind me.

Mother and Father are both already at the table. As is the custom here in Five, neither is sitting. Mother wears a long black baggy dress, and father wears a grey suit with a white tie. I stand next to Father, and Aloe takes the seat next to me.

Aloe sits down, and reaches for the platter holding the scrambled eggs, and lifts a spoonful out.

Mother snaps at her immediately. "Aloe! You _have_ to learn your manners! It is essential that you know when to eat, and when to _not even serve yourself_! I don't care how old you are! You do _not_ touch the food before everyone is at the table. You don't _sit down_ before everyone is at the table! And we're still missing Mika. Stand up, and don't you touch that platter again."

Aloe nods meekly. She stands up and pushes her chair in, dropping the serving spoon. Then, being Aloe, she tries to remedy the situation. "I like your dress," she whispers.

Mother stares at her for a second, then nods. "Thank you," she says stiffly. "You should drop compliments like that more often. Then people will like you, and you can get a job, and survive for a few years longer."

"But Aloe has a whole decade before she has to worry about jobs," a voice says airily. It's Mika. She walks to the chair next to Mother. "Now all she has to worry about is the reaping. Sorry, but it's true," she adds, seeing the look on Aloe's face.

Then, Mother says the words, the words that every family, every group in the district is required to say before eating. "We give our thanks to our President Peak, and to our Mayor Domin, without whom we would not have this food, nor life."

Mother's tone of voice is rather bored as she recites the words that we have all heard so many times that they have lost all meaning. The job of speaking the words rotates. Tomorrow will be Mika's turn, and the following day mine. The day after that, Aloe will recite the Speech of Thanks. Even she knows it by heart. Everyone age four and up is required to.

After a silent breakfast, we disperse. I brush my teeth and put on my shoes and walk outside. It's still dark out, though it is late morning. I glance back inside, where Mika is helping Aloe with her sandals. I remember them. They were a pain to put on, what with all the buckles.

"Go ahead," Mother tells me. "You can't stick with us forever. Suck it up and go on."

I nod and walk down the street to the square, where the reaping is held each year. I am not the only person on the street. Several other children have also departed earlier, without their families. All children go to the square alone. It isn't a rule, just tradition. I hope Aloe knows the way. Mother won't let Mika walk with her, that's for sure.

I walk down Tarn Street, one of the busier streets in the town. Like all streets, it is named after a mayor. Mayor Tarn was the mayor from 70 PDD (Post Dark Days) to 75 PDD. (Or, as the old-fashioned call it, 2170 to 2175.) His term ended five years early when he was killed by rebels. That was the Mockingjay Rebellion. The Mockingjay, Katniss Everdeen, almost succeeded in overthrowing the Capitol. Then, in early summer 76 PDD, she was caught in a rebel invasion and assassinated. The rebellion wilted pretty quickly after that. But the president, Snow, had died. It took Panem several years to recover.

If it recovered at all.

A tap on my shoulder startles me. I whirl around. Who broke the tradition? Who decided to walk with me?

It's Tia, of course. Tia Fray; daredevil, loud, rather hard-headed. My friend. She's never really cared about tradition. What _does_ she care about? Justice, equality, her friends, defeating those who prove themselves to _not_ be her friend.

"Hi," I say. "Uh...what are you doing?"

Tia raises her eyebrows. "Walking. Talking. Existing."

"Well...we're sort of causing a scene here..." I push down the uncomfortable feeling that comes with having a mother who presses you to not stand out, yet to still be unique, and to never break rules or traditions, or anything that might make the Capitol or the Mayor notice you.

Tia laughs. "Loosen up. So I want to walk to the reaping with my friend. Who cares? Walking and talking where I want, on public ground. I could probably fold that into the Bill of Rights."

I frown. "Bill of Rights?"

Tia shakes her head. "Sorry. My father told me about it. So... Remember America?"

I stare at her. "Well, _I_ don't, but maybe you do. I wouldn't know. I just know it from history class."

Tia laughs again. "No, I don't _remember_ it. So, American citizens had a list of ten rights, called the Bill of Rights. The first on the list was the freedom of speech, press, petition...peaceful gathering...I forget. And the other rights were, uh...the right to bear arms...some rights in trials...something about committing the same crime twice... Didn't they have it easy? They could carry _guns_. They could say what they wanted, believe what they wanted, et cetera. Not very fair, is it."

"Not really," I agree.

"What are you doing?" a voice inquires.

It's Lavender, one of the few 8-year-olds in the grade.

"Morning," Tia says.

"Morning," Lavender returns.

"Yes, it is the morning." I smile. "Though it is still fifty degrees out, and looks like early dawn."

"You have a point," Lavender says. "I, on the other hand, have fewer entries." She sticks her tongue out at me.

"Still sore about that?" Tia teases. "Baby Lavender, still a section behind the rest of us..."

"Come on, Tia," I say, seeing Lavender's scowl. "It's true, she's a few entries less likely to be reaped."

"No tesserae?" Tia asks skeptically. "I have twenty-five entries."

Lavender blanches. Then she says, "Really, Tia? It's not polite to talk about tesserae, you know that. Isn't that how you started arguing with that boy last week? He asked you about tesserae?"

My mother has made the no tesserae-talk rule clear to me. _I have five entries_. The words I cannot say.

"He did," Tia admits. "He only had five. Said we were poor. We're not. There're just a lot of us, and they can't lay the tesserae on my brother. He'd lose in no time, even if he is sixteen."

I'd only met Tia's brother once, at the last reaping. He was only an inch taller than his sister, and was missing his left foot due to an amputation at age five. He wouldn't make it a minute into the Games.

"Let's not talk about tesserae," Lavender decides. "All it does is cause resentment. I'm tired of breaking up your fights, Tia, especially the ones that start with tesserae comparisons."

"Fair enough," Tia mutters.

When we're a block from the square, the streets begin to crowd as all the children are channeled toward the reaping, and the bottleneck at the gate. Lavender drifts away, and even Tia knows better than to stick with me. This is one of Five's strongest traditions, and many consider breaking it disrespecting the district.

We sign in with the Capitol lady, and then I follow Tia to the nine-year-old females' section. Lavender heads to the section behind us. Tia shoots her a smirk. I lean back and whisper to Lavender, "In three years, we'll be eligible, but you won't. Think of it like that."

Lavender nods, and I feel satisfied.

.

"The time has come to pick our _eight_ lucky tributes," our escort, Chan, says. "Four girls and four boys will win this lottery. I am the privileged soul who gets to draw the names!"

I clench my fists. _Get on with it_.

"Ladies first," he says. "Who will it be? It could be any of you." He leers at the girls. "But who?"

Slowly, Chan walks to the girls' ball. He sticks his hand in, and draws a gray slip out. He unfolds it, and announces: "Maddie Nightshade!" And then he smiles at us, but not a smile I would give, not friendly and caring. No, he smiles a cold, unfriendly smile. He knows the girl who's name he read will be dead in a week or two.

And then his words sink in. _Maddie Nightshade. _Me.

Mother's words from months ago, when they announced the Quell, come back to me. _Supposed you're reaped. Maddie, _listen_. You'll have five entries. Mika's taken all the tesserae. So, suppose you're reaped. Chan reads your name. You be brave. Don't cry. Don't ever seem weak. Clear your face and walk up to the stage. Do _not_ shake. Do _not_ cry, that would be your end. If you cry, you're dead, and everyone'll know it._

I try to heed her advice, to bravely walk up with dry eyes. But I can't. The tears come, pouring from my eyes, flooding my face. The sobs come loudly, despite ever effort to muffle them.

I stumble to the aisle, and begin the long trek to the stage. Hours later, it seems, I'm level with the 11-year-olds. My heart is pounding. Through the shield of tears on my face, I see a girl take a step out from the next section up. It's Mika.

Mika's mouth opens. She's going to volunteer. I bubble of hope rises within me, and I curse myself for wishing that my sister die in my place. A sound rips from Mika's throat. Not a word. Not _I volunteer_. Just a wild animal sound.

I hear Mother's voice again. _No volunteering. Never volunteer, no matter what. _

Mika seems to remember this as well, or maybe it's just that she took her own future and life into account. But whatever the reason, my older sister steps back into her section.

"I'm sorry." The two murmured words are too soft for other ears to hear. But I hear them, and my sobbing gets even louder.

I get to the stage, and shake Chan's hand. How far will I make it before I die?

* * *

_District 5: Melody Wright's POV:_

**_Flashback_**

_My father and I stand at the foot of the bed he shares with Mother. We're both absolutely quiet. Mother's having a vision. We both know the ritual; it's been happening for three years. First, Mother will start to shake, and she'll lose consciousness. Father will haul her to the couch, or the bed, somewhere soft, preferably. Then, we'll stay by her until she's better, a few minutes later. She'll tell us about her vision, what we haven't picked up from her mutterings. _

_It's late April, two months after the Quarter Quell announcement. It's her second vision this year. At first, right after the electric accident that we all believe caused her visions, she rarely had any. But they've been occurring more and more frequently._

_Mother is silent for a minute, somewhere, listening to something. She mutters something. I lean closer. _

_"What did she say?" I ask Father. _

_He doesn't reply, but has turned pale. "No," he murmurs._

_Mother says it again. This time I catch it. "Not Melody. Please, not Melody."_

_I frown. Not me? For what? Father closes his eyes. _

_Mother takes a breath, and clenches her fists. Then, a moment later, she loosens up, and lets out a sigh of relief. I wonder what's happening in her vision. Something to do with me. _

_Mother starts it again. "Not Melody. Oh, no, no, not Melody..."_

_She clenches up again. This time, instead of loosening again, she jerks, her eyes fly open, her lips part, and she begins to wail. _

_Father goes to her side instantly. He comforts her gently. "It's just a vision, just a vision. It's okay, everything's fine..."_

_Mother's awake now. Her eyes are rimmed red from tears. _

_"What was it, Mother?" I ask urgently. "What did you see?"_

_Mother shakes her head. "It was you," she whispers. "You were reaped. This summer. You're going in this summer, I know it."_

_Father is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "That settles it. You're going to train."_

**_Flashback end_**

I remember that cold, April day with terrible clarity, and hope with all my heart that her visions are not prophetic. I wouldn't be prepared at all; I couldn't kill a soul, I have trouble even squishing ants. And when my father said I'd train, he just meant I'd watch Hunger Games tapes to help with strategy. Father seems to think Mother's visions are prophetic, but I really hope they aren't.

The morning of the reaping, I go into my closet to pick out something decent to wear. I'm rifling through my old dresses, the only three I've ever worn, when my mother comes into my room. She's holding some torn cloth.

"Good morning, Melody," she says. "Happy Hunger Games." Her voice is bitter, resentful. "As you're going to be reaped today, I've brought a special dress for you."

I stare at her. "Okay. Um, where is it?"

"Here." She holds up the fabric, and it tumbles out into the form of a dress.

"That - that's it?"

"Of course," she says. "What else?" She leaves my room, and I examine the dress.

It's an ugly lemon yellow, and it's so torn and old I know my mother must have worn it before me, and probably her mother, too. AS I pick it up, an awful stench hits me. _Perfume_. My mother's. It's a combination of lemon and some flower. It's terribly strong.

Reluctantly, I put on the dress. I glance in the mirror, and wince. Not only is the dress the ugliest I've ever seen, but it suits me badly. And it's not just the dress - my hair is choppy and sticks up in random places. My father cut my hair last week, and he clearly messed it up.

I walk to the table. Mother and Father are both standing there, behind their chairs. I go to my chair, and ask, "It's my turn today, right?"

Father nods. "Of course it is. It was Mother's yesterday. Or have you forgotten the order?"

I ignore him and say, "We give our thanks to our President Peak, and our Mayor Domin, without whom we would not have this food, nor life."

We all sit down, and eat our breakfast in silence. This is the worst silence ever.

Ten minutes later, we finish breakfast. I turn to head back to my room, but Father calls me back.

"One last Hunger Games tape, Melody," he insists. "Can't have you slacking on the day of the reaping."

"Fine," I mutter. I follow him to the TV room, which consists of a small screen and a worn old couch.

"Which year?" he asks.

"Um...seventy-five?" I suggest.

"Not funny." He frowns at me. "Everyone knows there aren't any tapes of that year. So don't pretend. I don't want you watching videos of lame old rebels struggling to ruin our world."

"Seventy-six, then."

"Better." He flips through the channels. Soon, a bright _76_ shines at the bottom right corner of the screen. "Pay attention. I expect to have some strategy notations when the tape's finished."

The reapings pass. I look at the contestants. The boy from One is huge. He volunteers, and when he shakes the escort's hand, she rips her hand free, wincing. The girl from Two must be six and a half feet. Unremarkable tributes after that. And then, District Twelve. There's a familiar last name, something I remember from history lessons. _Hawthorne_. The last boy to walk to the stage, Rory Hawthorne, must be the brother of the rebel, Gale Hawthorne, who was assassinated the previous year.

The chariot rides pass, and then training. The scores flash across the screen. Both from One and the girl from Two get a 10. The boy from Two gets a 9, as do both from Four. Most of the rest of the scores are threes, fours, fives, sixes, and sevens. All except for two. The girl from Nine gets an eight. Rory Hawthorne gets a ten.

The interviews pass. Most are just quotes, but the boy from One's is complete. He must be the victor. Then, they go to the Games. My least favorite part. I hate watching innocent teens and the occasional twelve-year-old die.

Fourteen die in the bloodbath. I note that no Careers die, nor does the girl from Nine or Rory. The days pass. At one point, Rory is trecking through an open plane. There is a screeching sound from above, and several huge bird mutts swoop down. They pick up Rory and fly him away. Several hours later, he's unconscious, lying on the ground in the fading light. A bird nips at him, and he wakes up. Then they swarm at him, pecking and ripping him into bloody scraps. He screams and tries to fend off the mutts, but they outnumber him, and soon his cannon blows. _A message to any remaining rebels_, I can't help thinking.

Soon, it's just the boys from One, Four, and Seven, and the girls from Two and Nine. Two murders Four in his sleep, but One kills her before she can kill him, too. Nine kills Seven. The next day, One defeats Nine in an "epic battle to the death", as the announcer puts it.

The rest of the tape flies by, and then Father shuts it off.

"So, Melody," he says. "What was his strategy?"

"He killed," I answer simply. "Which, unfortunately, I won't be able to do."

He shrugs. "What else?"

"He had allies," I say. "The Careers."

"Allies," Father agrees. "And what did he do to them?"

"He killed both from Two."

"Exactly," Father says. "So, make some allies, but kill them at some point. Now get going."

Five minutes later, I leave the house. It's still dark out, and the cold makes me shiver. A sense of dread settles in my heart as I walk to the square. I'm not the only person on Mayn Street, but it's much less crowded than usual, which I'm happy about. I hate the crowded streets. I don't like being around too many people at once.

I look at the other kids. There's that boy who was held back two years ago. Not very smart. Even less than most of the district. There's my sort-of-friend, just down the block. I don't even have an urge to go to walk with her. It's not because I don't want to break tradition, but rather because I don't want to talk to her. I never do.

I get to the square and sign in. _Wright, Melody. 11/YO_ flashes across the screen of the woman's device. Then, I go to my section. It's already far too crowded for my likings. I stand there for a few minutes.

"Hi," someone says.

I turn around. It's Trisha Green, who I've known since we were two. She wears overalls over a dark green t-shirt. Her short hair is neatly brushed, for once. Her mother must have bothered her into submission. Trisha's always been the stubborn tomboy type.

"Hi," I reply.

"Ready for the reaping?"

"No," I say. "No, definitely not."

"No one is," Trisha agrees.

"No, really," I say. "Would _you_ be prepared if you knew you'd be reaped?"

The smile fades from her face. "You think you'll be reaped?"

"I _know_ I'll be reaped," I correct glumly.

"But...how?"

"My mother," I say. "Remember how she had that vision in April?"

Trisha nods. She's the only person I've ever told about my mother. "And?"

"Well, apparently it showed me being reaped." I swallow hard.

"But that doesn't necessarily mean you'll be reaped," Trisha says. "Why worry because of something your mother dreamed up? Everyone has reaping anxiety nightmares. All parents, I mean."

"No," I insist. "Her visions have come true in the past. And she...she seems so certain of it. My father, too."

Trisha shakes her head. "I'll volunteer for you if you _are_ reaped. But, trust me, you won't be."

.

Chan reads the first name. A girl a few years younger than me goes up. Not me. Relieved, I think that maybe I won't be reaped after all. Trisha shoots me a look. _I told you_. But there are still three more names.

Chan picks a second name. "Someone's fate is already secured," he says happily. "I've already got the name. And the second lucky girl is..."

The silence at breakfast was not the worst. _This_ is.

Not me. Not me. Please don't say my name.

"Melody Wright!"

_Me_. A second of silence passes, and then the shock hits me. Me. He just called my name. Somehow, with so few entries, I was picked. My mother was right. Her vision came true.

I think back to the tapes Father and I watched. The tributes who seemed strong always seemed to fare better. Strategy. _Don't look weak_. And so I put on a bold expression, puff out my chest, and walk to the stage.

Trisha doesn't volunteer. I see her face, and know from expression that she does not expect to see me alive another day. She didn't think I'd actually be reaped, clearly. That was why she made such a foolish promise. Of course she didn't keep it. To volunteer would be to die.

When I reach the stage, I shake Chan's hand. Then, as I scan the crowd, I see my father. I prepare to bow my head, to glance away from his sorrowful expression, but he takes me by surprise, for the look on his face is not one of sorrow.

It's one of joy.

* * *

_District 5: Magali Pearson's POV:_

When I wake up, a book is folded over one hand, and my flashlight is gripped loosely in my other. I must have fallen asleep reading again. I read almost every night now. Reading is how I take my mind off of my problems. I have a lot of problems, so I read hours on end each day, if I can.

One problem is the bullying. I go to the better of the two schools in District Five. It's where all the richer townies go. You see, I'm not rich. My family isn't starving and scavenging like some, but we're hardly wealthy. My parents take pride in being able to send me to the private school, but I don't like it. The other kids picked me out as their target within days. It was immediately clear to them that I wasn't rich, that only official borders marked me a townie. I wasn't like them. And so they've always bullied me. And, though I hate to admit it, I never stand up to them.

And then, probably more importantly, there's the reaping. I have fourteen entries, less than a 1% chance of being reaped. But suppose they choose my name. Then what? I'd be picked off easily. I know it. How many times are others' names in? My twin, Ryker, has fourteen entries, same as me. My thirteen-year-old sister, Moana, has eighteen. That's all I know. It's forbidden, and unwritten law, not to share tesserae information with anyone outside of your family.

As I said, reading takes my mind off of my troubles. So I read a lot. And so, though I'm exhausted when I wake, I still pick up my book, switch on my light, and keep reading. Reading about a girl in old District Five. Back in 11 PDD.

She's my age, born right after the Treaty of Treason. After the rebels were put down. Old District Five was weird. The meal speech was only just being integrated, and she's having trouble memorizing it. _We give our thanks to President Rivalet, and Mayor Mayn, without whom we would have no food, nor life. _They don't stand while they're reciting it yet. Apparently that became law in 23 PDD. She watches the Hunger Games and curses the rebels who she blames for the Games. But never the Capitol. She never blames the Capitol. That is how we're different.

When she's signing up for tesserae - _discussing it with her friends_ - and arrives at the Justice Building, the chapter ends and I close the book. I go to my closet to pick out reaping clothes. I'm still trying to push it out of my mind, though, so I pick normal clothes. Fitted jeans and a t-shirt. I put them on, and go to the table.

They're all already there. My mother, at the head of the table. My father, next to her, who's blonde bedhead hair sticks up and around. My sister, next to him, several inches taller than I, waiting impatiently, tapping her foot. And them my brother, by my mother, looking like he'd love to jump right back into bed.

Four pairs of green eyes meet my brown, and Moana says, "Finally. Ryker, do the honors."

He rolls his eyes at her wording, but obeys. "We give our thanks to our President Peak, and our Mayor Domin, without whom we wouldn't have this food, nor life."

We take our seats, and eat our meal in silence, as is the custom. When we're finished, Ryker's mouth opens and out comes what he must have been bursting to say the entire meal.

"Moana's gonna be reaped."

There's dead silence for a whole second.

Then another.

Then Mother says, calmly and quietly, "We don't say things like that in this household."

Ryker grins. "As I said, Moana's gonna be reaped."

"And why exactly do you think that?" Father asks.

Silence.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Ryker asks. "Can't you feel it?"

"Feel it?" Moana laughs, but her eyes are worried. "Are you _crazy_? Of course I'm not going to be reaped. My name's only in there eighteen times. Your brain's messed up, baby brother."

Ryker's face turns bright red. "Fine," he mutters. "Just a hunch, okay? That one of us is going to be reaped, and most likely it's Moana."

"A hunch," Father repeats.

"We don't need you sharing such _hunches_," Mother says. "Be quiet and go get ready."

"Not just any hunch," Ryker murmurs. Then his face clears and he looks up. "So, Moana, trust me. You're gonna go in this year. Happy Hunger Games! I don't care of you don't believe me."

Ryker leaves the room, leaving us in a dead silence. Ryker has always been an odd one, but what's this talk of hunches? Of Moana being reaped? That would be terrible.

I glance at Moana, and am startled by the look on her face. It's a combination of surprise, dread, and fear. _Fear_. I'd never known her to be afraid before. I didn't know it was possible.

I see the question in Moana's eyes, the one she thinks she can't ask, that she thinks would make her look weak in Ryker and my eyes. _But what if I _am_ reaped?_

Father seems to see it too, and he says, "Moana, you're not going in. You have sixteen entries. Only sixteen. There's no chance you'll be reaped."

"There's always a chance," Moana says quietly, and I feel a sudden rush of anger toward Ryker.

I stand up and leave the dining room. I go to Ryker's room. I push open the door, not bothering to ask permission first. Ryker's lying on his bed, reading a comic book. _Capitol vs. Districts, _I read._ The Dark Days: the True Story._

"Good book?" I ask.

"No." Ryker looks up at me. "Get out, little sister."

I glare at him. "I'm only ten minutes younger than you are."

"Exactly - you're younger."

I walk over to him and snatch the book from his hands. "Why did you say that to Moana?"

Ryker frowns at me. "It's none of your business."

"Sure it is!" I yell. "Didn't you see her face? She was _scared_! Why did you _say_ that?"

"I wanted to warn her."

"Oh, so you were being serious. Sure." I whack him across the back of his head. "You gave her the worst news ever! Because of a _hunch_! What is a _hunch_? Something you _think_, correct?"

"I'm sure the dictionary definition is different."

"I don't care about the dictionary! It's not okay to go around lying to people, telling them they're going to be reaped!"

"Geez, Magali!" Ryker exclaimed. "It's none of your business what I said! I won't be ordered around by my little sister! And I won't say it again if you just leave me alone!"

I see it. In his eye. He's lying. I whack him in the head again.

He winces. "Go away."

"Leave Moana alone."

"Go away! Why are you always standing up for other people, anyways?" Ryker's eyes glint, and I can tell there's something mean coming. "I notice you can't stand up for _yourself_, you little annoying baby! You stink, you know that? You _stink_! You're the worst twin anyone could ask for! So why don't you just leave? You'd be doing everyone a favor!"

Silence.

I struggle to find something to say, a comeback, but suddenly I'm a little seven-year-old again, when the school bully stole my lunch, and then I'm remembering the kids at my school. _Poor girl! What're you doing in our school, you little scumbag? You dirty rat, you're clogging up the school with your waste! What, you call yourself a townie? You have _no_ money! You know what you call a poor kid who pretends to be a townie? VERMIN!_

I'm lost in a swirl of memories, each worst than the previous. Tears come to my eyes, and then I'm crying, sobbing, trying in vain to push them away, to push Ryker away, anyone, everyone. I run out of the room.

Ten minutes later, I'm walking through the icy morning wind. District Five wind, as Capitol reporters once put it. Tears are still sliding down my face, and I'm furious at myself for freezing up, for not standing up for myself. I'm glad no one's walking with me, that the nearest kid, a teenager, is several meters up the street. I don't want to talk to anyone right now.

When I get to the sign-in area, I tuck my chin down so others don't see my face. I wait for ten minutes or so, and then I'm at the front. The Capitol woman pricks my finger. I wince at the blood. Moana told me they took blood, but I'd never been looking forward to it.

I peer at the woman's calculator. No, not a calculator. I recognize it from my books. It's a blood identification device. Sure enough, _Pearson, Magali. 11/YO_ shows up on the screen, and the woman waves me away.

I go to my section, and wait for the reaping to begin. I'm hoping for solitude, but there's nothing I can do when Abigael comes up.

Abigael's not like me. We go to the same school, we've known each other since I was four and she was five, she's the only person from school I can actually call a friend, but she's not like me. She's wealthy, being the daughter of a luckier merchant. And she's a townie by definition and by social status. But we're still friends.

Abigael has friends of her own, of course. She's popular, sort of. She's hanging out with two other girls in the section in front of me. Then she turns and sees me, and rushes over to say hi.

"Hi!" she says warmly. (See, I was right.) But her optimistic tone is forced, of course. It's reaping day. "How are you?"

I don't lie. "Terrible."

Abigael cocks her head to the side. "Why? What happened?"

I hesitate before answering. "Ryker. He's insisting that Moana's going to be reaped. He says he has a hunch that one of us is going in, and so it's probably her. She - well, she has the most tesserae, being the eldest." I blush. Almost broke the no tesserae-talk rule.

"Well, at least he didn't say it was you," Abigael points out. "You're safe."

"Yeah, well..." I bite my lip. "I got mad at him, we got into a fight. And then he said...he said I was the worst twin ever, and why couldn't I just go away and help everyone out? And, well, you know, I always think back to school..."

Abigael shakes her head sympathetically. "Well, for what it's worth, Magali, you won't be reaped. Neither will Moana."

"Those are just the odds," I murmur.

.

I can't help holding my breath every time Chan reads a name. Two girls go up, neither me nor Moana. I'm still terrified, even though half of the girls are already picked. I still might go in.

"Now, for tribute number three," Chan says cheerfully, "who will it be?" He marches over to the bowl, and selects a slip. Is it my name? Moana's? He brings it back to the mic. "Our third tribute is Magali Pearson!"

I almost join in the collective sigh of relief. But then I realize what he's said.

Moana isn't going in.

But I am.

The horror hits me stronger than Ryker ever could, stronger than the kids at school ever have managed to. I stumble backwards, almost knocking over the girl behind me. She shoves me forward, but I barely notice.

_Me. I'm going in_.

I see Abigael in the section in front of mine. But no, now it's Moana. _Better you than me, runt_. No, she would never say that... I wonder briefly if she'll volunteer. But that thought goes out of the window almost immediately. She won't volunteer for me now, not after just having escaped death so narrowly.

I see Ryker. His face is emotionless. But no, now he's crying. But those are my tears, in _my_ eyes, clouding my vision.

Mother, Father.

And then the stage.

I stumble to the front, towards Chan, gasping for breath. The world swirls, and then I'm at the stage. Shaking Chan's hand. And the girls, they're staring at me.

I'm so dead.

* * *

_District 5: Edelweisse Gellum's POV:_

The baby wakes me up, again. Well, it's not strictly a baby yet, just a bump in my stomach. It kicks me periodically, often in the middle of the night, waking me up. But this time, it's early morning when I'm woken.

I glance at the clock on my bedside table. 7:23. Not as early as I'd thought. It's surprisingly dark, even for a District Five morning. It could have been four, even three. It's not too dark to see, though.

And then I remember: Rosanita's coming at 7:30. I have seven minutes to get ready.

Rosanita is the Mayor's daughter. She's widely seen as a snobby rich girl, so she has few friends. She's visited me daily ever since I found out I was pregnant, and my boyfriend left me.

I roll out of bed and slip into the flowery purple dress I'm wearing for the reaping. I look down. It almost covers the bump. I pull my dark ginger-colored hair into a bun. The fringes are falling into my eyes, and I sweep them away. The doorbell rings. I pull on black flats, and go to answer it.

I open the door, and Rosanita comes in. She's wearing a bright green dress. "Happy Hunger Games," she says in a falsely happy tone.

"And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor," I finish for her, trying to mimic the ridiculous Capitol accent Chan demonstrates for us year after year at the reaping.

"I'm sure they'll be," she says. "But not as good as they are for Annabel."

I frown. "You know how many entries she has?" Here in Five, you're never, ever supposed to mention how much tesserae you've taken to anyone outside of your family. Rosanita and Annabel, my other friend, are like my second family, but the rule still holds.

"Yes." She smiles slyly. "None."

"_None_?" I stare at her. "What happened to her?"

"She turned nineteen."

Suddenly, I feel foolish. Had I really been so occupied with the upcoming baby that I'd forgotten all about Annabel's birthday? And I hadn't realized even when Rosanita brought it up?

"Really? When was her birthday?"

"Yesterday." She gives me a curious look. "Didn't you know?"

"No," I admit. "I thought she was still eighteen, like us... Wait, she was with us in other years. What happened?"

"The reaping's always on a Sunday, right?" Rosanita says. "It fell after her birthday this year, so she'll be nineteen for it. Remember? She was a section ahead of us a few years ago."

I feel a pang of guilt. I'd forgotten. "Oh."

"Anyways, how's the baby?" Rosanita asks. "Feeling all right?"

"She woke me up," I say. "Or he. Just a few minutes ago. I forgot to set my alarm clock. Which reminds me, it's still set for 7:35..."

We both look at the clock. 7:34. The seconds are ticking away. 56, 57, 58...

"It's really loud..."

Rosanita reacts first. She dives onto my bed, grabbing at the clock. It's in her hands when it goes off, exploding with shrieks and screams loud enough to wake the heaviest sleeper. It was originally intended for my sister, Eden, who slept like a rock until you threw something at her so loud that she could not ignore it. It's been mine ever since Eden got pregnant with Micah two years ago. And then she got breast cancer, so it was given to me. Eden needs all the sleep she can get.

Rosanita buckles and plugs her ears, curled up in a protective ball on the ground. She's overreacting a bit, but she's not used to it, as I am. I grab at my ears, too, though.

A few seconds later, it's over. Eden and Micah will have heard it, too, just not as loudly. I hear them stirring in the room next to mine. My one-year-old nephew wails, and Eden shushes him. I can hear everything.

"That was loud," Rosanita remarks. "So, can I say hi to Eden and the kid?"

I nod, and lead her to Eden's room. She knocks, and the door is opened a moment later by a tiny boy wearing overalls. He has red-brown hair and blue eyes, just like the twenty-year-old woman who stands behind him.

"Good morning," my sister says. I inspect her. Her face is pale and creased with worry lines. Micah and the cancer have both changed her life. I curse her boyfriend for leaving her, and mine for doing the same to me.

I return the greeting, as does Rosanita. Little Micah grabs at the hem of my dress, and says, "Gooh mohnin'." You know, the way toddlers say it. And then he grins up at me, a full grin. The worry and hardships that plague the people of District Five have not hit him yet. He has a few more years. I bet that by the time he's a teenager he'll feel it.

Eden closes the door to get changed, and I take Micah to the table. Mother is there, out of her wheelchair. Father supports her. She's a cripple; her leg bones failed years ago.

"Hello, Rosanita," Mother says warmly. Then she turns to me, and her face lights up. "Good morning, Edel." She smiles at the baby in my arms, then asks, "Where's Eden?"

"In her room," I answer, my eyes lowered to the ground. Last week, we visited the doctor. We were told that Eden's situation had gotten much worse. She wasn't going to live much longer. Maybe six months. Maybe less.

Micah wouldn't grow up with a mother at his side. And I would lose my sister.

"Is she okay?" Father asks quietly.

"No better than she's been."

Just then, Eden comes in. There are dark rings around her eyes, as if she hasn't slept all night. She looks even worse than when I saw her earlier. It's getting harder for her to walk, she says. She never leaves the house any more. Just for the reaping.

Edel stands behind her chair. She waits.

Now we're all staring at Rosanita, who lingers behind an empty chair.

"Would you like to stay for breakfast?" Father asks. There's an uncomfortable silence. Only families dine together, unless the Mayor or someone from the Capitol orders otherwise. Rosanita is the Mayor's daughter, though.

"No, thanks," she replies. "I wish I could, but Father wants me home."

She leaves the room. A moment later, the front door slams shut.

Mother recites the mandatory words, and we sit down to eat.

.

I stand next to Rosanita at the front of the square as the reaping starts. We're eighteen, so this is our last year. I can't help being relieved. Chan picks the girls first. The first three are all much younger than me. A nine-year-old and two eleven-year-olds.

I'm impatient now. The baby has been kicking me, and I wish for nothing more than to get out of this overcrowded square.

"And now it's time to choose our last girl!" Chan says. "Who will it be? Who? It might be you!" He wags his finger at our side of the square. "You never know!"

He takes out a name, and slowly unfolds it. "Our final girl this year is...Edelweisse Gellum!"

My heart freezes. Then it begins to pound, somewhere in my throat. No. No way. This isn't supposed to happen. I'm pregnant. You're not supposed to send a baby into the Games! Not for five more years! They can't do this!

_Edelweisse_. I haven't been called that for a long time. So I pretend it's Edelweisse, not me, who's stepping out into the aisle and making those few steps to the stage.

As I shake Chan's hand, a thought comes to me.

I can do this. I can help Eden and my mother, get them medication, if I win.

And maybe I will win.

You never know, after all.

* * *

_District 5: Jason Grim's POV:_

I wake up early as usual, an hour or so before the bell that most of the other kids in the community home wake up to. I lie in bed, feeling the cool air wash across my face. This is the only time I can feel it, when my hood is off. I wear it the rest of the day, from when I get up to when I go to bed. I wear it so they don't see my face. At this hour, it is not a problem.

It's darker than usual this morning. Usually, a trickle of light creates a bright stripe across the wall. Most summer mornings you can see it. But this morning the grey of the wall is unchanged.

I get out of bed, pull my hood over my head, and go to the closet all the boys share. I pick out black cargo pants and a black jacket from my section. I wore them last year, and the year before. They were huge when I was fifteen, and they're now just a bit small. I'm not growing that much any more, so I should be able to wear them for my last reaping next year.

I look back at the twenty sleeping boys. Nineteen are asleep, but one sits up when he sees me.

It's Derek, my eleven-year-old friend. He came here three years ago, when I was fourteen and he eight. He looks up to me, I know it. He's terrified that he'll be reaped today. I wish could promise him he wouldn't be, but I don't lie about important matters such as whether or not he'll be dying in a few weeks. We'll find out in a couple of hours. Me, I don't really care what happens. But Derek still has life in him.

From the pale, worried expression on Derek's face, I can tell he's had a nightmare. I nod at him and recede into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, I'm back in the dorm. I pull on my combat boots, and stuff my gloves into my pocket. I'll put them on later. Then I sit down on my bed. We're not allowed out of them dorm until six thirty, when the bell rings.

Derek slides out of bed and comes over to sit next to me. It's forbidden to talk before wake-up, but everyone does it. His bare arms are covered in goose-bumps, and his short red hair sticks up on end.

"Hi," he says softly.

"Good morning."

"I had a nightmare, Jason," Derek says.

"I can tell." I give him a long look.

Derek is silent for a moment, and then he says, "He picked me. He said my name. I went in." His fists clench. "And then I died, I bet. I woke up first. But what if it really happens?" he asks imploringly. "I'm only eleven. What will I do?"

"It was only a dream."

"Yes, but what if I'm reaped today?" Derek grabs my arm. "What if he picks me?"

"Then you fight it out." I don't tell him he'll have a fighting chance.

Derek takes a shaky breath. "Do you think it's _likely_ that I'll be reaped, Jason?"

"The odds are unlikely," I admit. "You...well, I know how many entries everyone here has..." I swallow. We're not supposed to know how much tesserae everyone's taken, but everyone knows that you're required to take two tesserae additions if you live here. Derek has twenty-one entries. I have thirty-nine. "You have less than half has many as the eighteen-year-olds, and just over half as many as I do. It's unlikely." _But not impossible_.

Derek is quiet. Then he asks, "Who do you know who has the _most_ entries?"

I think about it. "I heard a rumor that one of the outskirt kids has over one hundred."

Derek's eyes are round. "How old was he?"

"Seventeen, apparently."

Derek shakes his head. "But aren't they better off than us?"

"Some are," I agree. "But not all. My family wasn't."

No, my family had to have been the poorest family in the district. I was lucky to get a meal a week. We were scavengers. Mother starved to death when I was five. On my fifth birthday, in fact. Father was whipped to death after he stole food. I was three at the time. All I remember of him is a flash of blue eyes that match mine, a slight laugh, a skin-and-bone malnourished frame. When they were both gone, I was transferred here.

"How much tesserae did you take?" Derek asks. When he notices my stony silence, he laughs uncomfortably. "Sorry. Rude question. My parents never lectured me about that."

I debate whether or not to answer, and eventually decide to. "I've been here for twelve years."

"Oh." Derek turns red. "Sorry. Didn't mean to...you know."

We talk for another few minutes, and then the other boys start waking up. Derek goes back to his bed, and I lie down. In ten minutes, this place will turn into a bustling madhouse.

When the bell rings, I immediately head down to the cafeteria. I weave through the forty other kids and get in line for food. I'm tenth in line. Derek is several people behind me.

It's District Five standard for the twentieth or so day in a row. I almost miss the cold oatmeal. I bring the small serving of old brown flakes to my assigned seat. Derek sits down seven seats from the end of the table. We stand, waiting. Twenty minutes later, everyone is here, and a tall, brown-skinned girl recites the mandatory words.

"We give our thanks to our President Peak and to our Mayor Domin, without whom we would not have this food or life." Of course, Jenny screws up the speech. My sixteen-year-old friend loves making fun of the Capitol without making it obvious. The head of the community home shoots her an annoyed look, but doesn't comment. He's as hungry as we are.

We eat in silence, and finish our measly serving within minutes. Then the head releases us, and we go back to the dorm to get ready.

I brush my teeth and pull on my gloves. I then wait by the door until Derek's ready, and we go outside. Jenny's there. Another girl is by her side. I recognize her. _Faith_. She's a townie, but she's always hanging around with Jenny.

Faith rushes over to us. "We meet again. I though you were Jenny's friends, but I never see you around!"

"Well, she's more _his_ friend," Derek says. "I don't really know her. Just see her around. I think it's actually the same for him, but I don't know. Hi, Jenny. Even _I_ know the meal speech better than you do. You should really memorize it. You're half a decade older than me, right? I think so. Faith, you know, Jenny messed up the meal speech this morning. Screwed up a few words! It's supposed to be word-for-word. Did you ever hear the story about that outskirt kid? My dad told it to me when I was little and didn't want to say everything. I was really hungry, and I didn't get why we had to say stuff before we ate! He didn't say it one day, and he was taken away! No one ever saw him again!" Derek talks _more_ when he's nervous.

Faith smiles. "My mother told it to me a few years ago. Of course I don't complain now. But I was nine or ten at the time. So, the kid was a very bad boy. He always ran out of the church when his parents weren't looking. He scorned God...and the devil as well. And one day, he refused to say the speech. The devil came that night. In the morning, his parents found an empty bed. They didn't miss him."

Derek stares at her. "That's ridiculous. The _Peacekeepers_ came, not the devil. And they took him to the Capitol, and they threw him in a cell to rot for the rest of eternity. Everyone knows that. And then he died, and his bones were sent back to the district! In a _paper bag_! And then his father, who had won the Hunger Games when he was a teenager, was reaped into the Quarter Quell! His sister went in the next year, and his brother the next! And then his mom got sick and died."

Faith's lips lighten, and she says, "That's not what I was told."

Derek shrugs. "Well, it's the _right_ story."

Faith doesn't reply.

"Go away," Jenny tells him.

"Why?"

"You're annoying her. And me, too." She gives him a small shove. "Clear out."

He pouts. "Fine. Come on, Jason."

I consider staying, but instead drift off behind him. We walk to the square and sign in.

Derek is first. He winces as she takes his blood. _Milor, Derek. 11/YO _flashes across the scanner. I'm next. _Grim, Jason. 17/YO._

Derek gives me one last frightened look. For once, he is silent. And then he goes to the middle of the square. I go to the front.

.

I find Chan the escort, rather annoying. He chooses the four girls, torturing them with suspense before calling their names. Jenny and Faith are both safe. Then he moves on to the boys. I don't care if _I'm_ reaped, but I hope that Derek isn't.

"It is now time to choose the four strong, amazing men to represent this district in the fourth Quarter Quell," Chan says. He draws a white slip of paper. "I now have someone's fate in my hands...literally. It might be you." He winks at our side of the square. "If you're a boy from the ages of five to eighteen, your name might be on this slip of paper!"

He unfolds it, and his eyebrows jump. "Ooh! I now know who it is. And it is..."

The paper slips from his fingers and flutters to the stretch of ground in front of the eighteen-year-olds. The print is up. I can see the black letters from here, but even with my eyesight, I can't read the name. It seems no-one can, as everyone keeps craning their necks and muttering to each other.

_Get on with it_, I think, annoyed. He dropped it on purpose, I know it. He's stalling.

Chan goes down and picks up the paper. He returns to the microphone and says, "Oops! Sorry about that. So, where was I? Oh, yes. Congratulations!" He grins at the four girls. One nine-year-old, two eleven-year-olds, one eighteen-year-old. "I know you're _so_ glad to be here, up here!" Then he looks back at us. "I was going to announce the first boy, correct? Okay, here it is."

_Not Derek_. _Don't pick Derek. He doesn't deserve to die_.

"Jason Grim!"

It's not Derek. I hope he's relieved. But I'm not sure he'll be. For one, there are still three boys to be called up. Also, he's one of those people who doesn't realize that people die, and so it's not a great idea to become reliant and great friends with anyone.

And I've just been picked.

I don't panic. Why should I? My whole life has basically been waiting for death. My parents died, sending me here. Here I've waited, only slightly less starving than I was with them.

And so, without missing a beat, I walk out of the section and up to the stage. I shake Chan's hand, and look at the glittering gold watch on his wrist. I've stolen a watch similar to this one. I bet I could get a week's food from this, if not several weeks'.

Chan goes back to the bowl, and the reaping continues.

* * *

_District 5: Cole Tenser's POV:_

I don't remember my parents. I mean, I don't _strictly_ remember them. I do remember walking around a tiny shack, and have hazy recollections of long adult legs, and my parents speaking in worried tones. I don't remember what they said.

When I was two, my parents probably decided they were unable to feed me, as we lived in the poorest section of Five. They put me up for adoption. Instead of sending me to the community home, the district agreed that I could be sent to a family that knew my parents. And so now I live with my adoptive parents, and my adoptive sister, Folly.

Folly is thirteen, three years older than I. She was five when I came, but doesn't have many memories of living as an only child. She does not have a memory as good as mine. Few people do.

The morning of the reaping, I wake up at dawn. It still looks like night, though usually at this time it's much lighter. But I'm glad it's still dark. I love the night. I've loved it ever since I was nine. It's only been a year, but I've grown used to looking to the elements of the night for guidance. The moon, the darkness.

Usually, I hate getting up in the morning. But it's dark to the point that it could be the middle of the night. And so I don't mind it nearly as much.

I tiptoe out of my room and go to the front door. I slip on my shoes and leave the house.

The coolness of the night comforts me. A ten-year-old shouldn't have to worry about the reaping, but this year I must. I have twelve entries in that big bowl.

There is no one else on the street. I stick close to the houses. I'm breaking curfew; you're not allowed out of your houses from ten PM to six AM. Unless you have permission from authority, that is. I don't, so I have to be careful.

I walk around the block, but my mind hasn't settled by the time I'm back in front of the house, so I decide to go to the fence. I should be better by the time I get back.

We live on the edge of the town. We're _in_ the town, and are considered townies, but I can't walk in the town. That's where most of the night Peacekeepers are. I can evade them, sure. But I don't want to focus on running away. It's always better to stay out of the time when breaking curfew.

The outskirts, however, are free game. Few Peacekeepers care about the poorest people there. There'll always be the occasional roaming Nightwatcher, but for the most part it's safe.

It takes me twenty minutes to get to the fence. I glance at the District Clock in the distance. It's at the heart of town, but we're the second smallest district, and my eyesight's always great in the night, so I can read it well. It's five thirty. Half an hour before the streets are open. I hope to be home by that time.

I hurry back to the house. I can hear my parents in their room, and even Folly is stirring. She's usually not awake at this hour. She usually wakes up as late as she can.

I go to my room and rifle through my closet. I decided what I would wear last night, but I still haven't found it. I scan the closet for midnight black, my favorite color. It's the color of the tuxedo I'm wearing today, if I can find it.

After a few minutes, I find it. It's stacked away with clothing I'm not big enough for. But I know it'll fit this year. I try it on every year, hoping. Waiting. Never knowing when I can wear it.

It was my father's, I'm told. My birth father. He wore it when he was a child. When he was a few years younger than I am. For I'm shorter than he was when he was my age, only four foot eleven.

It's one of the few things of his I have. I have to cherish it. And I do. Last year I was still swimming in it, but I knew that if my yearly growth patterns continued, it would fit this year. It's time to find out if I was correct.

I slip out of my clothes and put on the tuxedo. Black takes the place of black.

Sure enough, it fits. It's still a bit big, but I had expected that. It will fit me next year, and probably the year after, too, if I don't hit a mega-growth spurt. I doubt I will, though it wouldn't hurt to be a few inches taller.

I glance in the mirror. As always, the black suits me. I nod, satisfied, and go to eat breakfast.

It doesn't surprise me when I'm the only person at the table. The others sleep late when they can, and I don't expect them to be here for another fifteen minutes or so. I pass the time waiting behind my chair, calculating the odds that I'll be reaped.

I have twelve entries. On average, people have three tesserae additions. There are approximately one hundred children of each age. That means that there will be about four hundred five-year-old names, and about five thousand, six hundred eighteen-year-old names, if I'm not mistaken. And all of the middle ages, too. I don't want to calculate it, but I force myself to.

Within a few minutes, I know that my odds of being reaped are so miniscule, I can rest safe in the knowledge that I'm almost definitely not going in. But that's the case for everyone else as well.

And what if I _am_ reaped? The others aren't here yet, and aren't sue for another few minutes, so I allow myself to consider this situation. What will I do if my name is chosen?

I have a couple of advantages. For one, my IQ the last time I was tested was 168. That's far higher than anyone I know. I will easily be able to outsmart all of the other tributes. And my eyesight is remarkable, especially in the night.

But I'm not physically strong. Not at all. Also, I can't see well when it's light out. And I'm slow, which will definitely drag me down. These weaknesses may prohibit me from winning.

And there'll be ninety-five other children, each and all anxious to kill me.

I balance the sides. What will help me against what will hurt me. When I calculate the balance, I'm not startled to find that the odds of me winning if I go in are low.

Very low.

How to stay alive? The answer is quite simple.

_Don't get reaped_.

The odds of me winning if I go in _are_ much higher than the odds of me being reaped, at least. And it's most likely - and the most preferable - that I won't go in at all. I'll continue my life as the smartest kid in the district, as well as one of the few Hispanics, and I'll live a short life and probably die from some sickness, or maybe from malnutrition. I won't have a family to look after me forever.

Maybe I'll become a teacher. Raise another genius.

I'm pondering this when Folly comes in, rubbing her eyes. She wears a faded green dress. Her hair is pulled back into two braids. She nods to me, and walks sleepily to her chair.

"You wore that dress last year," I note.

She yawns, and then looks up at me. "That's an interesting way of saying good morning. And...huh?"

"Good morning," I amend. "You wore that dress last year, didn't you."

Folly frowns. "You remember?"

I give her a curious look. "Of course I remember. You said you hated it, it was too big. And it was. I told you that, and you got mad at me."

Folly laughs. "And you...you wore that, right?"

"What, this?" I look down at my father's tuxedo. "No way. I _wanted _to. Remember, I was talking about it before breakfast. But it was way too big. It fits now, but it's the first year."

"Oh. My apologies." She forces a grin.

"I've never known you to say that." I'm usually the one to speak the formal apologies. Folly usually resorts to a muttered "sorry".

"I'm sure I've said it before," Folly insists. "Anyways, let's get today over with. Where are Mother and Father?"

"I expect they're in their room," I say. A moment passes, and then I say, "Sorry, I believe they aren't."

Folly frowns. "How do you know that? They might be."

I don't reply, just point behind her. Mother and Father are framed in the doorway. Folly gives me a tight smile, and turns back. Mother and Father take their seats, and I recite the meal speech.

"We give our thanks to our President Peak, and our Mayor Domin, without whom we would not have this food, nor life."

We all sit down and begin to eat.

I've always thought the meal speech rather ridiculous. We have "this life" partly because of our parents, and partly because of the people who decided to break the remaining land of North America into twelve districts - thirteen at the time - and the Capitol. Sure, the mayor and the president have some influence. But what's the point of saying it three times a day, even if there's no food to follow?

I memorized it back when I was with my old parents. Here, I'm told I knew it by heart when I first came, at the age of two.

An hour later, I'm walking through the windy streets to the square. We still have a while until the reaping, but I like to get there early. After ten minutes, I see the line at the registration table. It's winded around the block next to the square. I get at the back of the line and wait.

Twenty minutes, the Capitol woman takes my blood. She reads it. _Tenser, Cole. 10/YO_. I look at the scanner and wonder how it works. It must filter the DNA, and then search in its systems for a match. I remember reading that back when I was five. Technology of the Capitol, the book was called. One hundred fifty-six pages long, not including the table of context, preface, and index. By Timedrus Skane, citizen of the Capitol. Published in 79 PDD.

I go to my section, near the middle. The sun begins to rise. The building casts a shadow, so only the five-year-olds at the back of the square are in the light. The movement of the sun should mean that during the reaping, I will be in the light.

"Cole!" someone shouts. It's Terin, my only friend. Like all mornings, he's overly active. He's definitely a morning person.

I wave. "Hi. Happy Hunger Games."

"Very happy," he agrees. "And this _has_ to be the ugliest morning I've ever seen. It's eight o'clock, and the sun is only just rising. Come on!" He shakes his head.

"Personally, I like dark mornings," I say.

"You're weird." He grins at me. "And even if it _was_ sunny..."

"It would still be reaping day morning," I finish for him.

"Yep." Terin sighs. "I hope no one I know is reaped. Unless it's that guy from school, the big rich buff guy that thinks he's so much better than me. Which, obviously, he isn't." Terin bows. "And why does he even go to our school? Shouldn't he be with the rest of the townies?"

"I'm technically a townie," I point out.

Terin struggles to find an answer. "Yeah, well...you aren't one of them. Not _really_. You're too good for that. Even if you _could_ go to their school, I'm glad your parents thought they didn't want to spend the money."

I grin at him, and then several more kids pour into our section. The reaping is soon to begin.

.

Each time Chan calls up a girl, my heart pounds, hoping it's not Folly. It never is. Then, Chan moves on to the boys. He calls up a solemn seventeen-year-old who's face is hidden by a hood. For once, the damned person does not react. I join in the collective sigh of relief.

Chan draws another slip. "My joke from last time is still true, and simply _hilarious_, so I will repeat it! There's a boy somewhere in the square, one of _you_ - " he points to us " - who's life I have, quite literally, _in my hands_." He throws back his head and laughs aloud. "One of you is going to go in. And two more as well, but they haven't been chosen yet. You'll be accompanying these five lovely ladies!" He gestures to the five tributes already on the stage.

I glance at Jason, the one boy. The folds of the hood cover his face, but I know he's not happy with Chan's remark. I wouldn't like being called a "lovely lady", either.

"So, a boy, yes?" Chan looks across the square. "Hmm, I wonder who it'll be! Let's see."

He opens the slip. There's a terrible moment of silence. And then he says, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have our second male tribute! It is..."

A second passes.

Silence.

Another second.

Another...

"Cole Tenser!"

The sun peeks out from behind the roof of the building. Sunlight shoots down at me, blinding me.

As Chan's words sink in, horror fills me, weighing me down. I'm going in. _I'm going into the Hunger Games_. He's chosen me. Out of all those names, he's chosen mine.

I tense up, and clench my fists. I know my odds of winning are just over one percent.

I take a deep breath, and walk up to the stage.

* * *

_District 5: Bell Titanson's POV:_

The morning of the reaping, I wake up early to make breakfast. Yes, me. I'm six years old, and I'm responsible for the two morphling addicts who were once my loving parents. Usually I just pour them small servings of District Five standard, but we've run out. Anyways, it's the day of the reaping, which is supposed to be a day of celebration. We don't have cake for tonight, as we did last year, so I've decided to make pancakes for breakfast.

I haven't made pancakes for a month. It's not a common breakfast, so I haven't quite memorized the recipe. I peer down at the yellowing parchment. This is my mother's cookbook, and it was her father's before he died. It was printed right before the Dark Days, in 2096, or 4 BDD (Before Dark Days). It's one of the oldest books in circulation, as of course we don't have any from North America.

Eggs...flour... Two cups of this, one of this...

Father used to make this every Saturday morning. It was my favorite breakfast back when I was four and five. Back when he and Mother were well-paid scientists.

But six months ago, in the lab, it was revealed that both had developed extreme addictions to morphling. They were both fired, and as a result both succumbed to the drug. They became brain dead, or as good as. After a month or so, it became clear that I had to take charge.

I was still five at the time.

This is my third time ever making pancakes. The first time was a disaster. The second time, they were soft and mushy. I taste part of mine. This time, it's thick and tough. I can never balance the textures as well as Father can.

Could.

I go into my parents room and wake them. It's a difficult task, but eventually they rise. I pick out a nice dress for Mother, the one she wore for last year's reaping, and a dark suit for Father. They don't need me to assist them getting dressed, as I've heard some addicts do. I'm glad about it, as I wouldn't really want to dress my parents for them.

I go back to the kitchen and serve up the pancakes. I've made three, one for each of us. I give myself the smallest, saving the bigger ones for Mother and Father. I may be a growing boy, but they need it more than I do.

My parents stumble into the dining room. I get the sense it's by habit more than anything else. They stand behind their chairs. Habit, too. And they never say the meal speech any more. They could at first, but by now they can't.

To divert suspicion, though, I still always say it. "We give our thanks to our President Peak, and our Mayor Domin, without whom we wouldn't have this food, nor life."

We sit down, and I dig into my small pancake. Mother and Father eat without complaining. I wonder if they've registered my terrible cooking, if they've even noticed it's not the brittle bran flakes we usually have.

They don't give any sign that they do, so I dismiss them from the table when they're done. They wander back to their room. After sorrowfully watching them go, I return to mine.

I stare at my closet. It's full of too-small clothing, as I've been to preoccupied in recent months to go shopping. Most of my shirts are too small to be considered proper, but I pick out a pair of trousers that might be able to pass. I put them on, and wonder what to do for the shirt.

I knock on the door of my parents' room. Of course they don't reply, so I enter. Mother is lying on the bed, motionless. Father is sitting on the floor. He stares at me as I enter.

"I need to borrow a shirt," I state plainly. "Mine are too small."

They don't respond, so I go over to the dresser and rifle through my dad's shirts. I pick out an old, worn grey striped collared shirt. It's huge, but it's better than any of mine.

"Thanks." I force a smile and retreat.

In the tiny trousers and huge shirt, I look strange. My light brown hair, longer than other boys', goes down to my neck. My blue eyes stare back at me. I look gaunt and skinny, more like a five-year-old or even a four-year-old than a six-year-old.

I shake my head, and go back to wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen. It takes me twenty minutes. By the time I'm finished, it's time for me to go. I've heard that I need to make the trip to the square alone, but what will my parents do? If it becomes common knowledge that they're inadequate and unable to care for me, if the Peacekeepers find out, they'll be taken away, and it'll be off to the community home for me.

So I can't ask a neighbor to make them go, either. It's too risky.

But most of the kids will have already gone by now. The families will soon follow. I could maybe get away with having them follow me at a distance. I probably could pass for too young to be reaped, but then how could I go sign in? I can't walk with them.

I hate this tradition.

I go back to my parents room, and open the door. "Mother, Father," I say gently. "Come with me." I pull Mother to her feet, and guide them to the front door, where I help them put on their shoes.

"Look," I say. "We're going to the square for the reaping. I'm not allowed to walk with you. So you follow me, okay? Follow me to the square."

When Mother nods, a jolt of relief shoots through me. Maybe she - they - can understand me after all.

"Follow me," I repeat.

I walk outside, and down the block. It's only then, when I feel the dust sifting between my toes, that I realize that I've forgotten to put on shoes. Oh, well. I'll be getting back to the house soon enough.

I glance back. Mother is trailing behind me, and Father is right behind her.

It takes me five minutes to get to the square. We're still in that period after most of the kids leave, but before the families follow them. The streets are mostly empty.

When I get to the square, I wait for Mother and Father. They soon meet me, and I direct them to the spectators' sign-in.

"Wait in line there," I explain. "When you're at the front, give her your name. She may take some blood. And then stand over there. I'll come get you afterwards."

They drift off, and I get in line.

It only takes five minutes for me to reach the front of the line. The Capitol woman takes my blood, and her scanner reads, _Titanson, Bell. 6/YO_. I walk down the aisle to the 6-year-old boy section.

Nikol finds me within seconds. He's an energetic, tall boy. I don't see him much any more these days, as I often miss school to look after my parents. I miss him, but I hate when he sees my parents in their condition. It embarrasses me.

"Hi, Bell!" he says. "Long time, no see. Why exactly was that?"

"My parents," I answer. Nikol and my other friend, Chlora, are the only people who know about my parents and their condition. I assume that the people who fired them assumed it was merely a phase.

They were wrong.

"Oh." Nikol gives me a sympathetic look. "Why can't you just, you know, cut off their...supply?"

"It doesn't work like that." I feel a sudden rush of impatience and frustration. Why can't he understand? "If I cut their supply off all at once, they could die. It's an addiction, Nikol. Their bodies rely on it."

"Can't you restrict their intake until they're not as dependent on it?" Nikol suggests.

"I've tried," I say quietly. "They get worse. They get cranky, and they look terrible. Trust me, I've tried."

"Well..." Nikol shakes his head. "Sorry, man. I've got nothing else for you."

"Good luck, then." I try to smile at him, but can't.

"Good luck."

.

"It is now time to choose our third boy, and our seventh tribute!" Chan says cheerfully. Too cheerfully.

He raises the slip of paper high in the air. "Another boy! Who will it be?" He smiles evilly.

"Enough stalling. Our lucky lottery winner is...Bell Titanson!"

Our lucky lottery winner. I've won the lottery, huh? I inspect the people onstage. There's the school genius, the girl who never talks, that dark kid with the hood. I'm to join them. My fellow lottery winners.

Horror and despair settle in me, too. My brain floats up, somewhere, and in a dream, I walk to the stage.

As I shake Chan's hand, I wonder what will happen to my parents. My lovely, poor parents. What will they do?

And what will happen to _me_?

* * *

_District 5: Ziggy Willow's POV:_

"Ziggy!" Mother calls. "Time to wake up!"

I wake from a nervous, light sleep. My dreams had been filled with scary scenes from my imagination. Today Mother says four girls and four boys will be chosen from our district, and they'll go into the Hunger Games.

What's the Hunger Games? All I know is that you have to fight to survive. That's all Mother told me. She said she didn't want me to worry.

"Ziggy!" Mother calls again. "Get up! I need to send you to the square in an hour!"

_Send me_ to the square? My face crinkles in confusion. I open my eyes, and see Mother at the doorway. She's wearing a dress. Mother _never_ wears dresses. I stare at her.

"I'm going to take out your clothes for today, now," Mother tells me. "Okay? And then you can get dressed, and breakfast is almost ready!"

She goes into my closet, and picks out a grey polo shirt and black pants. I wore them last for Mother's friend's wedding. What makes today so special, if eight kids are going off somewhere?

"You need to wear your proper clothing today," Mother says. "Now, get changed, okay? Come to the table when you're ready."

She flashes me a smile, and hugs me. Then she walks out of the room, closing the door behind her. As she walks away, I feel a sudden pang of loss. _Don't leave me, Mother!_ Then I pinch myself. I don't rely on anyone.

I put on the clothes, and hate them immediately. The stiff collar makes my neck itch, and I scratch to no avail. The pants are too thick, and the heat is soon trapped, and I'm burning up.

What is "proper clothing"? Why aren't other clothes considered _proper_? Is "proper" a synonym for "uncomfortable"? I think it may be. Tears come to my eyes. Will I really have to wear these all day?

I go to the bathroom and stand on the stool so I can see in the mirror. I look different, with the collar wrapping around my neck, brushing my chestnut-colored hair at the back of my head. Pools start to form at the corners of my crystal-green eyes as I see myself standing in this for hours and hours.

I pout, and go to the kitchen that also serves as our dining room. There's a two-person table there, and Mother stands at one chair. I go to the other. I know not to sit down. I've been doing this for two years now. I'm a big boy.

"Ziggy, it's your turn," Mother says to me, a smile on her face.

"My turn?"

"Yes. You're five years old, you know what I'm talking about." She waits.

"Oh, yes." I blush slightly before delivering the mandatory words. Mother nods approvingly when I finish, and we both sit down.

I look at the pot in the center of the table. "What is this?" I frown up at Mother. "Are we eating breakfast?"

"This _is_ breakfast." She opens the pot with a flourish. "Standard Stew."

I gape at her. "Standard...Stew? Stew for breakfast?"

Mother shakes her head, smiling. "No. I've made this before, remember? You know District Five Standard, right? The cereal? The bran flakes?"

"Those hard brown things?"

"Well...yes." Mother seems to dislike my choice of words. "If you grind that up and mix it with milk and tesserae grain, which thanks to you we now have, you get Standard Stew."

I peer into the pot. What I see is not at all appetizing. It's a mushy brown mixture, with several gray beads sticking out. I do remember it, but the last time she made it, it was more watery. This looks like...poop.

When I tell Mother this, she frowns at me and ladles a huge serving into my bowl. "Don't talk like that," she admonishes. "It's food, and that's what matters."

I take a spoonful, and promptly spit it back up. "It's disgusting."

"Hey." She waves the serving spoon at me. "There's milk in it. What was the last time you had milk, Ziggy? Two months ago? And it's your own tesserae grain in it. Some kids here haven't any food at all."

"Sorry." I feel tears come to my eyes. "And...wait, what's tesserae?" I look up, suddenly interested.

Mother looks nervous. Caught. "Um..."

"What? Please tell me, Mother," I beg, intrigued.

"Fine," she sighs. "So, the reaping is sort of a lottery, right?"

I frown. "Reaping? Lottery?"

"Today, when they choose the kids, that's called the reaping," Mother explains. "There'll be a big bowl of names, and someone will pick eight names and read them. The eight kids are the chosen ones. You can opt to have more entries in the ball in exchange for food. We did that for you. So, you have one entry because you have to have one, and one entry so they deliver grain to us each month. It's not very much, though..."

"Cool! They give us _food_?"

"Well, yes," Mother says. "But it's in exchange for another entry. If you're older, you'll put your name in more times. But you're only five, so your name's only in there twice."

I nod thoughtfully. "Why do they want our name?"

Mother freezes. After a moment of silence, she replies, "I don't know, honey. Just wait with the other five-year-olds, and I'll come and get you later. Sound good?"

"Yeah!" I jump up, and go to brush my teeth. I grab my toothbrush in one hand, and the bottle of toothpaste in the other. Then, I proceed to sing the teeth-brushing song they taught last month in Kindergarten.

After a verse, I smear some of the minty white stuff onto my brush. After another verse, I wet the brush. Two verses later, I begin to brush my teeth. I tap my foot two hundred times, and then I pull my toothbrush from my mouth. Then, I sing about how my teeth will be the cleanest teeth in the district from now until when I die.

I love the toothbrushing song. It's amazing.

Then, I skip to the door and pull on black boots. I stand there, waiting for Mother.

She comes after two minutes.

"Okay, Ziggy, listen to me," she says. "You need to walk to the square, and follow all the other kids to the registration line. Then, when you're in, you need to go to the very back of the square. Find Sandy, and go to the section across from hers. Okay? Do you understand?"

"Yes," I say, though I'm still confused.

Mother waits.

I wait.

Why is _she_ waiting? Why isn't she wearing shoes? Is she going to go barefoot, as I see some of the kids doing sometimes? Does she want her feet to get all dusty?

She always wears shoes. I find myself staring at her bare feet, frowning.

"Why aren't you wearing shoes?" I ask.

Mother bites her lip. "Well...because I'm not going yet. I'm going to leave in a couple of minutes."

My lip begins to tremble. "You're...you're not going to walk with me?"

"I can't honey," she says softly. "You need to walk there by yourself, as all of the other kids are doing. You know the way to the square, right?"

I nod silently. We only live two blocks away.

A tear rolls down my face. "Please walk with me, Mommy."

"I'm sorry, Ziggy." Mother looks away. "You need to do this yourself. And...I won't see you until after the reaping."

Suddenly, she leans forward and pulls me into a tight embrace.

"Stay safe, Ziggy," she whispers into my ear. "Please don't leave me. I lost your father, he left me when I was pregnant. I can't lose you, too." I can hear the tears in her voice.

I pull free, and glance up at my mother. What was she talking about? My father? He left before I was born. Leaving her? She thinks I want to go away? Huh? Why wouldn't I be safe? Is the square dangerous?

I walk away from the house, down the dirt road. As I reach the corner, I turn back. A few houses down, Mother stands on the doorstep. She raises her hand in farewell.

_Stay safe, Ziggy_.

I see Sandy when I'm walking down Choy road toward the square. I spot her from a distance. She's the only person on the street smaller than me, and her chestnut hair matches my own. I break into a run trying to catch her.

"Hi! Hi, Sandy!" I say excitedly.

Sandy turns around. "Hi, Ziggy," she replies uncertainly. "Um, I'm not allowed to talk to you. Or anyone else."

My face falls. "Why not?"

"My mom told me not to," she says. "Sorry. I wish I could."

"Please?" I beg. "My day's been really, really bad. These clothes are uncomfortable. And my mother wouldn't walk here with me! And we had Standard Stew for breakfast. Ick!" When Sandy doesn't respond, I say, "Please talk to me. Please!"

We reach the line, and she says, "Fine, now I think I can talk to you." I scowl. "I'm sorry Ziggy! My mom said I couldn't. I wish I could. I'm serious! But now we can talk, okay?"

"Yay!" My face brightens. "So! How much names do you have?"

"Huh?" She stares at me, confused.

"How much names do you have?" I repeat. "In the big ball." I can see it now, and I point to the huge glass spheres on the table. "I have two. Mommy says they gave me food for the second name. So, how much names do you have?"

"How_ many_," she corrects. "Tesserae. My mom told me I couldn't tell anyone."

"But...why not?" Tears come to my eyes. "You said you would talk to me. It's just a number, right? And I have two. I told you, so can't you tell me? Pretty please?"

Sandy considers it. "Fine," she finally says. "I have six tesserae. Seven names."

"_Six_?" I exclaim loudly. Several teenagers turn to see who it is. I wave to them, then turn back. "That's _so cool_! You get _six foods_! You're so lucky! I only get one."

"It's for my family," she mutters. "Mother says it's bad to have tesserae. Six. For me, my mom, my dad, and the other three."

"You have a twin, right?" I stare at her, transfixed.

"Yeah," she says. "And the other two are three and two. Babies. But I'm biggest, so I get all the tesserae."

"Why doesn't your twin take tesserae?" I ask her.

"He does, also."

"You get a lot of food," I remark. Why is she blushing? Why is she shaking her head so hard? Glaring at me? "Is it because you live by the fence?"

"I'm not in the town," she mutters. "So we're not rich. Happy? Now leave me alone."

I pout, but do as she requests. I hear some of the older kids snickering around me. Why?

When we get to the front of the line, I'm asked to hold out my hand. I oblige, and the lady grabs it.

"You're from the Capitol, right?" I ask her.

"Yes." She doesn't elaborate, but I'm too stuck in a fantasy to care. She's from the _Capitol_! That cool place we see on TV with all the colors and people! The guys that give us the food. Lucky her!

She squeezes my third finger, and holds it to the black thing she's holding in her other hand. There's a sharp pang in my finger, and I wrench my hand back with a yelp. She gives me an annoyed look.

Biting my tongue against the pain, trying not to cry, I look at the device. It takes me several seconds to read what it says. _Willow, Ziggy. 5/YO_. What does that mean? Why is my last name before my first?

A kid behind me shoves me away, and I fall to the ground, scraping my hands. I stare at the red stripe across my palms, and feel the sting. The tears start to come to my eyes, and I can't shove them back.

I go to the back of the square, as Mother instructed. Then, I follow Sandy into a clump of girls standing behind ropes. Several of them giggle as I enter the section. Why are they laughing at me?

One girl gives me an irritated look. "You aren't supposed to be in here," she tells me. "Or are you a girl? Tell me, are you a girl?"

"No."

"So get out." She points to the aisle.

"No fair!" I protest. "It's not nice to exclude people. That's what the teacher says." I stick my chin out. "I can be in here if I want to."

Sandy comes up. "Ziggy, you need to go over there." She points to the boys on the other side of the square. "The boys go over there. This is where the girls go."

I don't argue. Sandy is usually right. And also, Mother had told me to go to the _other_ section, not Sandy's. Oh, right.

"Sorry," I mutter. I push my way out of the girls' section and join the rest of the boys.

.

Chan chooses four girls. On of them cries. Why? They're going to the Capitol. _The Capitol_. I think the words in a dreamlike manner. But they're also fighting, right? They'll be fighting to the death.

A tall boy with a hood is called, and a Hispanic ten-year-old, and then a small six-year-old. I'm never called.

"It's time to choose our final tribute," Chan says. "Seven of the eight already know they're going to go in. But one more boy is yet to be chosen. Only one more, unfortunately." He sighs. "Well, at least we're not done yet."

He marches over to the bowl and draws a piece of paper. I stare at it fearfully, and wish Mother was here, standing with me.

"Here is the eighth name," he announces. "Who will it be? Which boy will enter the Hunger Games?" He smiles, and his eyes glint. He looks mean. "The moment of truth is now."

Dead silence. My heart pounds. _Not me. Not me_.

"Ziggy Willow!"

What? My name? But I thought I only had two names. Why did he say my name? Everything I know slips from my mind, replaced by one question.

_Why did he say my name_?

And then I remember. Images of kids covered in blood, the red stuff that was on my finger earlier, fill my mind. I start to panic. Tears bubble in my eyes, my throat boils. I start to cry, to scream for my mother, for anyone. For anyone to help me.

I break from my section and head to the sidelines, where I see Mother. She's crying silently, not looking at me. I scream her name loudly, so loudly. She doesn't look up, she can't.

The man in white gets to me before I get to Mother. He grabs me and, kicking and screaming, I'm hauled to the stage. I'm thrown on the ground, and I struggle to my feet.

"Wonderful," Chan says brightly. "Nice of you to join us, _Ziggy Willows_. I'm sure we'll have great times together."

There's a lump in my throat, and I can't respond.

Why is this happening to me?

What will I do?

* * *

**A/N: So, I have several more things to say. First: Updates will become even less frequent, as school as started up again for me, as I'm sure it has for many of you. So don't expect an update for another few weeks. **

**Also, as there are ninety-six tributes, there are quite a few authors, and it's hard to keep track when someone changes their username. So, I would appreciate if you would message me when you change your username, so I can update it on the tribute list. Thanks!**

**This chapter had 17,281 words. That's my new record!**

**So, rank these eight tributes in order from favorite to least favorite. It'll go toward the tributes' sponsor points, so if you like or dislike a tribute, I suggest you send in a ranking. Don't be worried about giving them extra sponsor points; I'm giving out sponsor points in different amounts to seven out of eight tributes per district, you just determine who they go to. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. District 6 Reaping

**A/N: Here is the District Five list, from favorite to least favorite (averaged from the reviewers' lists):**

**1. Cole Tenser**

**2. Melody Wright**

**3. Bell Titanson**

**4. Maddie Nightshade**

**5. Magali Pearson**

**6. Edelweisse Gellum**

**7. Ziggy Willow**

**8. Jason Grim**

* * *

District_ 6: Mercedes Jones's POV:_

In my dream, I'm riding with my father in his hovercraft. Neither of us speaks a word; we just ride in silence, looking out of the window at the beautiful, colorful city below us. It's the Capitol. As we ride over the heart of the city, Father grabs a parachute and goes over to the trapdoor in the floor. He opens it, straps on the parachute, waves to me...and drops out. I scream, breaking the unnatural silence, and rush over to the trapdoor. But Father's gone. The hovercraft begins to wobble in the air, and it begins to descend. I've never actually flown a hovercraft before, only seen it done. I go to the controls, and fiddle with them, and then -

Darkness.

I wake up, and remind myself that my father isn't going to go - no, he's already gone. And I don't have to fly a hovercraft. That was my father's job. He built the latest hovercraft, with several new installations that he'd only begun to discuss with us. The Capitol loved it, and they took him back to their city so he could make them more things. I haven't seen him for years. The only hint we have that he's still alive are the occasional paychecks he sends us.

A districter cherished by the Capitol, and brought to the great city. Quite a father, huh?

Mother relies on the money he sends us. She works day and night assembling engine parts. Between her wages and my father's, we're able to live in relative comfort, and we can afford a special...tutor, I guess you'd call him.

My mother, paranoid that Ford or I'd be chosen and taken to the Capitol as well, has paid for a victor to come every week and train us. So, here we are, in one of the poorest districts in Panem, our father is off working in the Capitol, and we spend our free time training for the Games.

We're not exactly your average District Five family.

I get out of bed and put on my reaping clothes. Four more reapings, and my mother will _finally_ realize that neither Ford nor I was going to be reaped, and so maybe she should've saved the money. But I'm still fifteen, so I have a while until that day. That day when I finally graduate from possible-tribute-candidate-who-might-be-reaped-so- worry-about-me-and-put-me-in-lessons.

I know I'm not going to be reaped _this_ year. I have eleven entries, as I've taken no tesserae. I bet some eight-year-olds have more entries than I do. And maybe even some seven-year-olds, and possibly some six-year-olds. Five-year-olds? Maybe.

Ford, nine years of age, has five entries. He's even more certainly not going to be reaped. The most number of entries he'll ever have is seven, when he's eighteen. We have nothing to fear.

When I finish brushing out my wavy brown hair, I walk down the corridor to the dining room. Ford is already sitting at the table, squirming and waiting impatiently for Mother, who I can hear in the kitchen.

"Hi, Mercedes!" Ford says. He lacks much of his usual enthusiasm, but his huge trademark grin is present, as always.

"Happy Hunger Games," I return. "May the odds be _ever_, ever in your favor." I give him a solemn look. "Because, as you know, odds mean life, here. Or they mean death, if you get the moldy ones..."

"The moldy _what's_?" Ford stares at me.

"The moldy odds," I say. "The ones that've been sitting out too long. You know. Moldy odds are bad."

"Uh...okay." Ford has known me for a while, and he knows that sometimes I am the most random, weird-joke-telling person ever. But sometimes I pull something that surprises even him. Those are my finest moments.

"Moldy odds," I muse. "I hope the odds today aren't moldy. For you or me. Or for anyone we know."

"No moldy odds," Ford agrees. "Speaking of odds...and moldy ones...what if I'm reaped?"

I stare at him. "Well, then you hope that your odds from then on aren't as moldy."

"I'm serious, Mercedes." He gives me a pleading look.

"Serious?" I look at him, disdained. "What's fun about being _serious? _It's true; you hope for better odds. But it's very unlikely you'll be reaped. Think about it. You've taken no tesserae. And if you _are_ reaped, you've been training for a while. You might be able to win. You'll be fine. Dead, maybe, but fine."

I grin at him, and he says, "You can be extremely irritating at times. You know that, right?"

"I know," I say cheerfully.

He shakes his head. "You're crazy."

"You're boring."

"I'm _sane_," he corrects. "You're the one who's off your plane."

"I'm not _off my plane_," I insist. "_You're_ off _your_ plane if you think _I'm_ off _mine_. I'm perfectly sane, thank you - I just see the world in a different way," I say haughtily.

"Whatever," he mutters.

"Happy Hunger Games to you, too."

He gives me an exasperated look. "_Seriously_?"

"No, not seriously." I give him a grin. It doesn't compare with his, but it's a grin all the same. As he turns away, shaking his head, I add, "And may you get the moldy odds."

Just then, Mother comes in, holding a platter of waffles. She looks slightly different than normal. And it's not just that she's wearing a dress. I can't name it. She sits down across from Ford, next to the empty spot. Father's spot. I can almost see him beside her, an outline of a tall man, and I hear his laugh, his booming laugh.

"I don't know about you, but I slept really well last night," Mother says brightly. "Eight hours of sleep! I haven't slept that long since last reaping! And tonight, too! I don't have work."

"Congrats," Ford tells her.

Only then do I realize what it was that I noticed when she came in, but couldn't put a name to. She doesn't have the dark rings around her eyes from lack of sleep, and she seems much brighter and more buoyant. Her night job was from ten to six, each and ever night. She also worked the afternoon shift from noon to six. She usually made us breakfast and did other morning chores, and then she'd sleep until eleven. Then she'd eat lunch, and go to work. That evening, she'd make dinner, and we'd eat it together. She'd do some other stuff, and then go to her night job.

She usually got about three to four hours of sleep each morning, when we were at school. For her, reaping day must be a relief, with no work in the day, nor the night before or after.

But no, she has us to worry about. As we know from her insistence that we train, she worries day and night about us. She'll sleep even better tonight, I'm sure, when she knows we're both safe and sound. No evil Capitol to take us. (Mwa ha ha! I've got your child! Na nana boo boo!)

We eat the waffles. They're really good, and Mother shines when we tell her this. We stick to healthy, happy conversation until Mother decides to bring up the reaping. Our favorite topic.

"I worried myself sick over you two last night," she says. "I had a nightmare. It was Mercedes, and then you, Ford. It was terrible."

I point my fork at her. "I thought you said you slept well."

"Yes, well..." Mother gives a low chuckle. "I didn't want your first waking thoughts to be about the reaping."

"They were," Ford mutters.

Mother smiles apologetically. "I know this situation is very hard on both of you. Ford, you especially. You're nine years old, and eligible for the Hunger Games. And Mercedes, you have more entries than you thought you'd ever have. I've worried, too."

"Mother, we aren't going to be reaped," I insist.

"There's always a possibility," she says. "And if you are, you've spent time with a victor, and trained, so you might be able to get some ways in, and maybe even win. But I don't think I could bear to watch you fight to the death..."

"You won't have to," I say, slightly impatient. "Why is this year different than any other? In fact, my odds of being chosen have gone _down_."

She just shakes her head. "Just - just finish up and we'll leave."

We obey, and finish the meal in silence. We then finish getting ready, and wait for Mother by the door. She comes soon, and we leave the house.

We live in the heart of the town, so it takes us just a few minutes to get to the square. There, Mother goes to sign in with the rest of the spectators, and I lead Ford to the other line.

When we get to the front of the line, a Capitol man is waiting with a black device. While I've seen it before, it's new to Ford. He steps back, his face pale. I push him gently forward, and he reluctantly gives the man his hand.

Ford cringes as his blood is taken. _Jones, Ford. 9/YO_ appears on the screen of the device. I'm next, and _Ford, Mercedes._ 15/YO takes its place.

I lead my brother to his section. "Don't get the moldy odds," I remind him. He grins as much as one can on reaping day, and then waves me away.

"Am I embarrassing you?" I ask, a smile spreading across my face. "Does little Fordie not want to be seen with his big sister?"

He rolls his eyes at me and pushes me away. I nod, grinning, and go to the fifteen-year-olds' section on the other side of the square. There, I wait for the reaping to begin.

.

The Mayor's speech seems to pass in the blink of an eye. Soon, the escort is in his place, talking and talking.

"Yeah, so now we all know what exactly happened one hundred years ago to the year!" she says. "Thank you for that, Mayor. So, now for even more introductions! I'm Mary Jane! Was once Tiffie, but old is the new new back in the Capitol, you know! Didn't you wonder why I'm wearing an old fashioned dress? It's _in_! So, to the more important stuff, right? I get to pick four girlies and four, um, boylies! Hurrah!"

She does some crazy dance move, and moonwalks over to the girls' bowl.

"So, as you can all see, I'm going to pick the ladies first!" Mary Jane says excitedly. "Four of them! Lots of tributes, huh? Time to get _reaping_! I'm going to call up the first lucky lady, now!"

She draws a slip of paper. "Mercedes Jones!"

My mouth falls open, and I suppress a cry. How did she pick _me_? I only had eleven entries. Eleven names in that huge bowl.

I try to calm down. _It's okay, Mercedes. You've been training for years. So what if Mother was right? You can dominate. You can win this_.

I close my eyes, and take a deep breath. Then, I slowly make my way to the stage. I shake Mary Jane's hand, and she bursts right back into chatter.

"Ooh, we have our first girlie picked now! Wonderful!" She beams at me. "I'm so glad you could come! Isn't it such a wonderful experience, being onstage? And now you're even more the center of attention than I am! You're so _lucky_, wouldn't you agree? The odds are _totally_ in your favor!"

An idea pops into my head. I grab Mary Jane's mic. "Hi, _luckier_ people of District Six! It looks like I got the moldy odds, huh? Sorry, insider joke... Best of luck to you all! See you all in however many years in the Underworld! Of course, _I_ may be there sooner than you, but that jut means I won the race, right?"

There are a few laughs, and I hand the escort back her mic. I've boosted my own morale, as well. Maybe I _will_ win.

* * *

_District 6: Jonan Spoke's POV:_

Somethin' I _need_ to tell ya: I's older than Meyla. I's a full hour older than her. So maybe she sometime more mature. That what most - fine, _nearly all_ - adults says. _She's more mature than you, grow up, Jonan_, all o' that. But I's tellin' you right now, so you can remember it: no matter what they says, whatever you thinks, I's an hour older than she is. Don't give me a hard time.

It doesn' help my case that she taller than me, neither. But we's both eight, 'cept _I'm 'n hour closer to turnin' nine_. Seriously, nothin' bugs me more than other people sayin' she's my older sister. They think she nine, maybe ten. But no, I's still eight, if not seven.

We's so different, you would'a never thought we was twins. I's four foot six, she's four foot ten. She stands up straight, I slouch, and don't bug me 'bout it. She talk waaay too form'ly for 'n eight-year-old, and I's still a child in terms of vocab, they tells me. She suck up to adults, I can't. She does marvelously in school, an' I try, but I can never seem to match her.

I know I's supposed to love my sibling like no other, but really, how can I when she _always_ showin' me up? I don't _hate_ her or anythin', but she jus' annoys me _so_ much, and always seems to be better than me. I know I's rantin'. Don't blame me.

An' how she have a normal BMI, when I's the skinniest person alive? Well, maybe not the _skinniest_, but really, I can't remember a time when I haven' been able to see my ribs.

Sorry. Eight years with her've damaged me beyond repair.

In _that_ sense.

Sorry. Okay.

When I wakes up, I sees that Meyla's already gott'n up. Her bed's empty - an' perfectly made, as always, with absolutely no wrinkles. I's not joking. There no sign she's left 'sides her empty bed, and the absence of the faded once rose-red dress that she'd laid out at the foot of her bed las' night.

I 'spect she's looking _fabulous_ right now, simply _charming_. Mother and Father and Aunt Trinda'll all fawn over her, and they won' be lyin'. Even _I_ hafta admit she look good in any clothes. Not like me. Proper clothing jus' don't suit me. I looks like, oh, a rat stretched to human length an' stuffed into a messy wardrobe.

An' not even a babby rat. We has enough rats here in Six for me to know that while babby rats are cute, bigs are not. Not at _all_.

I struggles to brush out my messy golden-brown clumps of matted-down, sweaty hair. After a minute, I's gotten the long strands to untangle 'nough to almost brush my shoulders. But they be messy again in a few hours. The magic brush's charm never last long for me. (Somehow, though her hair go to the middle of her back, Meyla always seem to be able to avoid it.)

Then, I goes to my closet and picks out somethin' to wear for the reaping. I decides on a grey checkered polo shirt and dark grey pants. I wore them both las' year, an' as I hasn't grown much, they still fits easily. Not like Meyla's clothes from a year ago - she grown least an inch since then, and they was small and worn to begin with.

I puts on the clothes, and forces myself to look in the mirror. Sure 'nough, I looks like a rat in a messy wardrobe. These clothes is very old - Meyla wore 'em two years ago, and my father wore 'em when he was my age or so. Probly younger'n me.

I leaves the bedroom and heads over to the tiny room that serve as both our kitchen and our dining room. Mother and Father smiles at me when I enters.

"You looks nice," Aunt Trinda say without lookin' up at me. She's like that: sorta weird, separate from the rest o' us. Not like us. I guess she don't realize that I _knows_ she hasn't even seen me yet. She's tried and failed to get a job, so my dad, her brother, let her move in with us. She do some household chores and stuff like that, but mostly jus'...lives. Ya know.

"Thanks," I says. "Glad to know ya looks at me b'fore tellin'."

She still don't look up.

"Sit down and leave her alone," Meyla tell me. "It's not nice to bully...people like her." She smile apologetically at Aunt Trinda.

Another thing 'bout Meyla - she don't speak the slang speaked by many o' us Outskirter kids. The slang that most of 'em lose when they grows up, but Aunt Trinda's keeped.

I glares at my _younger_ sister, and sits beside her. She wearing the faded red dress, which now is pink. Her long, golden hair is pulled back by a red bow. Her blue eyes stares intelligently into my brown eyes. (Where she get those eyes from? Mother and Father both has brown, and so does Trinda.)

"Don' tell me what to do," I sayw grumpily.

"Don't talk to people that way," she return. "_Then_ I won't tell you what to do." She smile at me. "Deal?"

"No."

"You're not being helpful," she tell me. "Here, have some cereal."

I considerw declining, but my stomach growl, so I takes the box of District Six Standard. I pours the old, crispy, wheel-shaped grey chunks out and into a bowl. I eats them quickly, and asks for seconds.

Meyla jump in immediately. "Really, Jonan, you know the rule. No seconds. Never. We don't have the money to get a new box every month."

I scowls at her. "I _knows_. Why you need to remind me?"

"Because you asked," she reply simply.

"I didn' ask for you to step in, actually," I argues. "So kindly mind you's own business and don' ya but into mine. Got it?" My voice raise at the end.

"Jonan!" Mother exclaim. "You don't talk to people in that tone of voice. Meyla is right, we can't afford for people to have more than one serving per meal. Don't talk to her as if _she's_ the one doing things wrong."

"_She_ the one just _had_ to but in and show me down," I says, outraged. "_She_ the perfect one. Why can't ya jus' leave me 'lone for once? _All_ o' you! I's sick of being the second child!"

"_Second_ child?" Meyla pipe up. "But you were born first, weren't you? _I'm_ actually the second child."

"Not to everyone else you isn't," I says, dejected. I leans back in my chair and imagines that I's elsewhere. In a field of daisies, in a lonely tunnel, with no stripe o' golden hair to boss me 'round. "No, to them I's just the backup in case you fail."

Silence.

"Jonan," Father says, "go to your room. Get ready. It took you a while last year. We were almost late. Might as well get a head start."

"Always happy to," I mutters. I stands up and shoves my chair back in. I storms out of the room, and goes back to Meyla and my room, where I flops down on my bed.

* * *

_District 6: Meyla Spoke's POV:_

When Jonan leaves, we're all silent. Jonan can be...interesting at times, but he doesn't usually explode like this. I'm usually not sure what he's talking about. What does he mean, he's the second child? He was born first, a full hour before I was. What, does he think he doesn't get enough attention? Mothre and Father are always worrying about him.

Me, they think I have everything in hand. That I never need anyone to worry about me, to check up on me. How wrong they are. Do they really think I couldn't use any help? Any consideration?

Jonan doesn't realize how lucky he is.

Soon after he leaves, I also excuse myself. I brush my teeth, and adjust the bow in my hair. It's slightly uneven, and this gets to me. I'll admit it, I'm quite a perfectionist. I take several minutes to get it just the way I want it, and then I let Jonan into the bathroom. What did he do when he left? Didn't Father suggest that he get ready?

Ten minutes later, we're all ready to leave. I'm wearing silver sandals, the nicest shoes I own. This dress is the nicest dress I own, too. I own one other, but it's grey and plain and faded. It's decades old, and has numerous patches.

After Jonan pulls on his black boots, the five of us step outside, and Father closes and locks the door.

"We'll all be coming back here later," he assures himself quietly.

Jonan stares at him. "You thinks we be reaped? It...it likely?"

Father looks up, startled. "You heard that? Um..." He sighs. "You're not going to be reaped, okay? You two have eight entries each. Eight in the entire bowl. The odds of you being reaped are tiny."

"Under one percent," I agree. For some unfathomable reason, Jonan shoots me a glare. "Fine," I amend. "Under half a percent. Under a quarter percent, too, I bet. Sorry."

Jonan throws his hands up in a gesture of exasperation. "Why you always such a _showoff_?"

I stare at him. Me, a showoff? _He_ was the one who wanted to know the likelihood of one of us being reaped. I _helped_ him! And when I realized that I was probably far off, I corrected myself! How is that _showing off_?

I open my mouth and start to tell him this, but Mother intercedes. "Jonan, Meyla was just being helpful. She wasn't showing off. She was just answering your question."

"My question?" Jonan stares at her. "I didn' ask her any question!"

"You asked if it was likely that you'd be reaped," I say. "And I said no, and explained why."

He just glares at me, and turns and stalks down the block by himself.

"Well, then," I mutter.

"Jonan worries too much," Father says quietly. "You were right, Meyla. He...he's just jealous of you. Don't take anything he says to heart."

"How can I not?" I ask. "He's my brother, Dad. My twin."

He smiles at me, and says, "Let's get going."

"Going, going," Aunt Trinda says absently. She clutches Father's hand, and he leads her down the street. Mother and I follow behind.

For a while, we walk in silence. Then, Mother says, "You know who you remind me of most?"

"Who?" I look up at her.

Mother hesitates. "Your sister. The first."

I freeze. Amila is never mentioned. Never, ever. I haven't even heard her name for months. But she's plagued my thoughts, my dreams. Her dark gold hair, the one-of-a-kind blue eyes that I, too, inherited, her slim features and face.

"Amila," I say softly, almost in a whisper.

Mother looks away, and I see that she's crying. "Amila, yes," she murmurs. "It's been three years now. She would be fifteen, sixteen in just over a week. You...you were five that year. How much do you remember? No...no, please don't. But Meyla, that year, she wore...she wore that dress."

Tears stream down Mother's face, and though I barely remember Amila, my face is soon wet, too.

"You look so much like her." Mother's voice trembles. "So much. So much..."

Mother chokes, and is silenced. I touch her arm.

"I'm sorry, Mother."

She doesn't reply. We walk the rest of the way in silence. We live in the outskirts of the district, so it takes us a good twenty minutes to walk to the square, which is situated at the center of town, along with the Mayor's house, the Justice Building, and the District Clock.

When we finally reach the square, I part with Mother. She gives me a fierce hug, and I whisper in her ear, "I'm not Amila. I'll be fine."

Her hazel eyes are glazed with tears, and she just looks away. I go and hug Father and Aunt Trinda, and then I follow Jonan to the sign-in place. I'm three people behind him, which I'm sure he's glad about.

Ten minutes or so later, Jonan signs in and goes into the square. I'm son following him, and I go to the section across from his near the back of the square. He doesn't look at me, and I feel a pang of guilt.

I talk with my friends about the reaping, and tesserae, and life. One of them calls Jonan "cute". Really, Drenna? _Cute_? That's an old-fashioned word. I haven't heard it for a while, and you usually only read it nowadays, in re-print books. There aren't any books in circulation written before Panem times, but the Capitol, at Panem's creation, allowed books to be rewritten, so long as the Capitol agreed with the themes in it.

I tell Drenna this, and she admits, "I'm not really even sure what it means. Just read it somewhere. What was the book again? _Life on the Plain_, I think. A re-write. It's set in 1877!"

I've read this book before, but I don't remember the use of the word. We discuss the book for the next ten minutes. And then the reaping begins.

.

When the Mayor finishes his long speech about the Dark Days, our escort takes the stage. I remember her as Tiffie, but she at once tells us her name is now Mary Jane. "Old is the new new" in the Capitol, she says.

When she finally finishes rambling, she draws the first girl's name. My freeze up in anticipation, but the name she reads isn't mine. No, it's a fifteen-year-old girl. Maybe she knew my sister before she died. She looks scared, but cracks some line about moldy odds and seeing everyone after they die.

Then Mary Jane draws a second name.

"Ooh, so now we have out first girlie," she says for the second time. "And a funny one at that! But we're not half done, we're only an eighth of the way through the reaping! I'm now going to pick the _second_ girlie. Awesome, right? Awesome! Well, I mean, I've already picked the name, so now I get to tell you who it is!"

She cheers, almost dropping the name. Then she blushes and picks it back up.

"Okay! Our second girlie is..."

_Not me. I promised Mother. Not me, please not me._

"Meyla Spoke!"

The world swirls around me, and then everything goes black.

_**Flashback**_

_It's reaping day in District Six, and it's the rainiest day that has been seen in years. Buckets pour down on the entire population of the district, who is huddled in the square at the heart of the district. It's reaping day in District Six, and the escort is ready to pick the young girl and boy to enter the Hunger Games._

_"Amila Spoke!" Tiffie says in a high-pitched squeal. "Amila Spoke!"_

_There's a stifled cry from the back of the square, and then a twelve-year-old with golden-blonde hair tied back with a red ribbon and a rose red dress stumbles to the stage._

_Money changes between the hands of those for whom this is but an annual game. _

_In the crowd, a woman and a man stand, hand in hand, tears pouring down their faces. Beside them, next to a third woman, there are two children, just five years old. They stare around in confusion. They do not understand what is happening. And then it dawns on one of them. The girl. Her eyes widen, aghast, and somehow, she knows she will never see her sister again._

_A week later, a girl thirteen years old to the day lies on the ground beside a tall tree. The boy hailing from District Five, clad in green, stands above her, a sword in his hand. She does not close her eyes, keeps them wide open, stares him in his eyes. When she speaks, it is not to him. _

_"Jonan. Meyla. I'm sorry. Do not forget. I love you for- "_

_The boy stabs downward, and the cannon blows._

**_Flashback end_**

When I come to, I'm being helped up by my friends. Their faces are white, and they stare at me in fear. I'm disoriented for a second, and then I remember. I've been chosen. With eight entries and a promise to my mother, _I've been chosen._ I, Meyla Spoke, will participate in this year's Hunger Games, as my sister did five years before me.

Arman Wolfe. That was the name of the boy who killed her. Fourteen years old. District Nine. He died two days later, but he took Amila down with him.

Amila, Amila. Amila. Will I ever utter her name again? Or will she remain only a memory? A reminder of what we couldn't do?

Will my name be the same? A forbidden word, never to speak? Will Jonan remember me, or will I fade into the recesses of his mind? Will I live in his memories, or will he blot me out?

I clench my fists, and walk to the stage.

What was it Amila was going to say? _Jonan. Meyla. Do not forget. I love you for- _Forever. Forever, the word she never got the chance to say. She was killed, it was her thirteenth birthday. _I love you forever_. Even when I'm dead. Even when I'm no longer there.

I shake Mary Jane's hand, and I see my blue eyes reflected in her purple.

I see Amila's eyes as well, and I wonder what she was thinking at this moment, as she shook Tiffie's hand. Did she know she would die? Her odds were better than mine are.

_The girl with the golden hair stands on the stage, and forces a brave look as she looks down at her district, her people. She wonders if she will ever return. She sees her family in the crowd. Her twin siblings. And as she is led away, away at last, she says - _

_"I love you forever."_

* * *

_District 6: Belladonna Darnell's POV:_

"_Outskirter_," I say with mirth. "You little Outskirter, you little _rat_."

The little boy stares up at me with tear-filled eyes. He's probably never heard the term before. The little ones often seem to grow up never hearing class terms. There's the _townie_, which apparently is also used is several other districts. That's someone from the town of Six. I'm a townie.

Then, there's an _O__utskirter_. We've used this term since the seventieth or so Hunger Games, when a tribute from some district called his prey it, right before killing her. That's what we call the poorest people of the district, who live right along the fence. I could tell from a mere glance that this boy fell into the latter category.

He is young, only five or six, and he wears an old, worn grey suit with numerous patches. He's grimy, and emaciated. We're not the poorest district, but you'd still be surprised at the condition of some of the Outskirters.

"You're a filthy Outskirter, aren't you." I give him my smile. The one that makes the little ones cringe.

He drops his head and fiddles with his shirt. "I dunno what you's talkin' 'bout."

"Well, that settles it," I say gleefully. "You're an Outskirter, aren't you."

"I's not an Outskirter." His voice trembles.

"Oh, so you're a townie?" I ask, amused. "_The_ only townie speaking that slang?"

"Yes, I is," he mutters.

"Sure you are," I say. "_Outskirter_."

"No!" he cries. "I's...neither! Outskirters is bad."

"Correct," I agree. "They are."

"And I's not one!" he says, starting to cry. "I's neither!"

"Almost no one's neither, you liar," I say accusingly. "And the neithers don't speak in the Outskirter slang. You're an Outskirter, sure as anything."

"I's not!" he sobs. "Go away! Leave me 'lone!"

"You Outskirters are despicable," I say distastefully. I push him away, and walk back to my house at the edge of the town.

**_Flashback_**

_The six-year-old girl stands at the corner of the kitchen. She wears grey pyjamas. Her black hair is pulled back into two tight braids. She did them herself. Her father couldn't, her mother wouldn't. In the center of the kitchen, her parents are deep in a discussion. They do not see their daughter._

_"I hate to say this, Evelynn," the man says, holding the woman's hand in his, "but I fear we...cannot stay together."_

_The woman raises her eyebrows, but says nothing. _

_The man hesitates. "My dear Evelynn, you...well, we have a limited amount of money. And it seems that much of that money is disappearing to fund your...alcoholic intake." He smiles apologetically. _

_"Go on, Blast," Evelynn says softly. "I know where this is going."_

_Blast Darnell looks uncertainly at his wife. "Evelynn, we simply do not have enough money for you to continue buying your...beverages. If you insist on continuing to buy them, I fear we cannot stay together. I'm sorry. Of course, if you wish to stop..."_

_"I refuse," Evelynn snaps. "I'll leave you, whatever. But you won't be forcing me to stop. Never. If you don't make enough money for me, I'll happily leave you. You get the divorce application from the Justice Building, and we can fill it out immediately." _

_Blast lowers his head. "Very well. I shall get it tomorrow. I love you."_

_"And Belladonna is staying with you." Evelynn glares at her husband. "I don't care what you say. I don't want to be near that beast of a daughter. She clearly has problems, and I'm not going to be the person who has to cure her." _

_At the door, Belladonna does not visibly react. But she is boiling inside. Her cold black eyes narrow, and she stares at her mother with a look of hatred. She never loved her, but has never despised a person so much in her entire six years._

_The following day, the divorce contract was signed. Evelynn Darnell disappeared, and hasn't been seen since._

**_Flashback End_**

I still remember that day as clearly as I remember yesterday. I hated my mother, _hated_ her. I hated her not for leaving me - no, I was actually quite happy about that - but for calling me a beast. _She clearly has problems, and I'm not going to be the person who has to cure her. _

The next year, when I was seven, Father married Rosie, who was sent here from District One. She got into some kind of trouble back there, and chose coming here and leaving everyone she knew behind over spending the rest of her life in jail. I know she still misses her people.

When I was nine, Rosie and Father had Daphne together. Daphne is now six years old. She has Father's darkish hair, with a bit of Rosie's blond, and Rosie's icy blue eyes. Like me, she's small for her age. Unlike me, she doesn't have a strong, intimidating personality to make up for her small size.

I'm four foot eleven, but they don't bully me because of it. They tried at first, sure, but they soon learned not to. They learned it the hard way. It resulted in several bloody noses and bruises, none of which belonged to me, and even one broken wrist.

When I get back home, the others have finished breakfast. I ate it earlier, before they woke up. Rosie scolds me slightly, telling me I should've waited for them. She's let me wander alone, even in the early morning, since I was twelve or so. But eating alone? No, no. Never, ever.

I apologize, and she gives me a quick hug.

"Bella!" Daphne comes running over to me. She embraces me, and doesn't let go until I pry her off.

"Hi," I reply. "And it's _Belladonna_."

She just smiles up at me. I'm used to her rarely speaking. She's never been one to talk much.

"You do know that Kean calls me Bella now because he heard _you_ call me it once, right?" I ask her. "And I can't stand it. I swear, he does it just to annoy me."

"Boys are like that," Rosie says, and she gives me a knowing look. "Especially when they like you."

"Stepmother!" I'm shocked. "If you think he likes me, I mean _likes_ me, then you don't know Kean. Sure, we're friends. But if he _ever_ hints that that isn't the case, I'll _smush_ him. And he knows it!"

"So that's why he hasn't told you yet," she reasons.

"You're crazy," I say. "He doesn't _like_ me, and I don't _like_ him. Got it?"

"If you say so." She grins at me.

I roll my eyes, and say to Daphne, "Come on, you need to get dressed for the reaping."

Her face falls, and she gives me a frightened look.

"Yes, the reaping," I say. "You're six years old, and the rules this year are _crazy_, so you're eligible."

Daphne shrinks away from me, looking terrified.

"Look, Daphne," I sigh. "I know you're remembering those clips that are on TV. But that'll only happen to four girls In the _entire district_ this year. I'm almost positive it won't be you. And we aren't going to the square yet, just getting dressed. Did you get out clothes?"

"She's wearing the yellow dress," Rosie calls. "The one you wore when you were her age. It's on her bed."

"Thanks!" I call back. I take Daphne by the hand, and lead her into the room we've shared for four years.

In the room, the yellow dress is on Daphne's bed. I help her into it, and she murmurs a quick thanks. She hurries off to the bathroom, and I get into the baby blue floral dress I wore last year. It was Rosie's, brought from District One. She wore it when she was twelve or so, she told me. It was one of the simplest clothes she wore, and one of the most extravagant that I own.

I put my black hair into pigtails. It makes me look even younger. I could easily pass for eleven, maybe even ten. But I'm fifteen.

I look in the mirror. I think back to the little Belladonna standing at the doorway of the kitchen nine years ago, in the pyjamas that Daphne now wears. My appearance hasn't changed that much over the years. At least, not in a notable or important way.

Well, besides my pendant, that is. The black and white yin-yang pendant that my father gave me after my mother left. To show me that there's always good inside of evil. In a world of darkness, there is always a pinprick of light.

I sigh, and go to the front door. I pull on my brown boots, and help Daphne into her sandals. Rosie and Father soon join us, and we walk down the street to the square.

It takes us just under ten minutes. When we get to the square, Daphne and I bid the adults farewell, and go to sign in. My half-sister is shaking now, and pressing into my side.

That's when Kean finds me.

"Heey, I see it's Bella and the sister," an obnoxious voice says.

"Kean," I sigh. I recognize the voice before even turning around.

"Hi, _Bella_," he says.

I draw back my fist and punch him in the arm. Hard.

He yelps and jumps back. "Not so rough, Bella - Belladonna! Don't kill me! You almost broke my arm there!"

I raise my eyebrows. "You're a foot taller than me, Kean."

"Eight inches," he corrects. "And I'm serious! Be more gentle! Try _not_ killing me, for once."

"Why? You're too weak and pathetic to stand up to it?"

He rolls his eyes. "Aren't you friendly?"

"Very," I agree.

We get to the front of the line. Kean cuts in front of me, and the Capitol man takes his blood. _Fitch, Kean. 15/YO_ flashes across the screen of the scanner the man holds.

Daphne is next. She whimpers and presses against me, but I gently take her hand and give it to the man.

"He's going to take a bit of blood, okay? It's going to sting a bit, but don't jerk your hand. It'll be over in a second," I whisper.

The man pricks her finger, and Daphne jerks. I shake my head, and comfort her quietly. _Darnell, Daphne. 6/YO_.

I'm next. I give him my hand, and he pricks my finger. My finger throbs, and I read on the scanner, _Darnell, Belladonna. 15/YO_.

"What did it say?" Kean asks me when I catch up to him. "Darnell, Belladonna, eight years old?"

I punch him again. "Don't be stupid. You know perfectly well what it said."

"Sorry, sorry. Bella Darnell, eight years old," he amends.

I punch him again, harder. "I'm content to go on with this. _I'm_ not going to be the one with a sore arm."

"Fine, fine," Kean says. "Belladonna Darnell. Happy? Fifteen years old?" I nod, and he says, "Happy Hunger Games, Bella and sister."

He disappears into his section before I get the chance to punch him again.

I take Daphne to the back of the square, and place her in her section. "I'll get you when it's over," I whisper to her.

She hugs me, and I go back to the fifteen-year-olds' section. I wait there for the reaping to begin.

.

I fear for Daphne as well as myself. I bite my lip and clench my fists every time Mary Jane reads a name.

The first girl is an aspiring comedian. She slips some joke about moldy odds, and doesn't appear as scared as I thought she'd be right when her name was called.

The second girl faints. She's helped up, and goes to the stage, almost crying. I wonder how long she'll last.

"And now we're officially half done with the girls," Mary Jane says, "and one quarter done with the entire reaping. I wonder who will be next. A little five-year-old? An awesome eighteen-year-old? I have no idea, and I can't wait to find out! It could be any of you!"

She points a manicured finger at our side of the square.

"I'm going to take the name now," she says. "And I'm going to wait a moment to increase the suspense, and then I'll read it, and we'll all know who the third lucky girl this year is! And maybe she'll win! After all, we have four times as many tributes from this district. It's even more likely that one of them will win!"

I roll my eyes. Do the Capitolites go to school?

Mary Jane totters over to the reaping ball, and selects a name.

"I really wonder who it will be!" she squeals. "And in about ten, twenty seconds you'll know! Who's excited? I know I am! Ooh, this is _soo_ exciting, isn't it? I can't wait!"

Finally, she unfolds the name, and announces, "Belladonna Darnell!"

The _Darnell_ sinks in first. My first thought is, _Oh, no, it's Daphne._

But the I realize that it's not Daphne - it's me.

I'm reminded of the night my parents decided to get divorced. I was helpless, angry, and my life was about to change forever. We're not that different, that Belladonna and me. And, like that night, I'm helpless, startled, angry...and my life is about to change forever.

I clear my face of emotions, as I walk to the stage, I turn my face to the camera. I give it a cold glare.

_I won't go down without a fight. Just you see_.

* * *

_District 6: Alice Brendon's POV:_

"You're wearing _that_?" My sister, fifteen-year-old Leanna, is usually quite understanding and charming. But she can't contain her horror when she sees what I'm wearing.

I look down at my red hoodie and jeans. "Yes."

Leanna shakes her head. "You look like a boy."

"You say that a lot."

"The point is," she says, "it was okay when you were little. But you're thirteen now, and it's better for you not to go around dressing as a boy."

"I'm as much of a girl as you are," I tell her. "And I _act_ as much like one. It's just my clothes."

"I know that, I've lived with you all your life," she says. "You may act like a girl in most ways, but your clothes...Alice, really?"

"I'd have thought you were used to it by now," I say.

"Yeah, well, today's the reaping," Leanna reminds me. "This is the _Capitol_ we're talking about, not the Districters. I mean, no offence to anyone, but you look like an Outskirter."

"An _Outskirter_?" I exclaim. "And then you say _no offense_? If you called one of the richer kids that, they'd probably beat you up. You know, it _is_ an insult here."

"So, are you going to wear something else?" She perks up.

"No. Sorry."

She just shakes her head. "Well, this is what _I'm_ wearing."

She holds up a deep blue dress. It's very feminine and pretty. It suits her well.

"Where did you get that?" I ask. I've never seen it before.

"The store," she says brightly. "The one by the square. Capitol Delight or something."

"You bought something at _Capitol Delight_?" I exclaim in awe.

"Yep." Leanna grins at me.

"Where'd you get the money?" The Capitol Delight, part of a _branch_ throughout Panem, whatever that means, is where the richest townies go to shop. We're middle class, and while we live relatively comfortable lives compared to the Outskirters, we almost never have enough money for new clothes, let alone fancy dresses.

Leanna winks at me. "Saving and saving."

"Mother didn't buy it for you?"

"Oh, no, she did. I just contributed." She smiles.

Mother gives us whatever she can. She's great. (Of course, I appreciate my family more on reaping day, when there's the threat of me going away and never seeing them again.)

"Leanna! Alice! Breakfast!" Father calls.

I nod at her, and we walk to the table together. There, Mother and Father are both already sitting. Father wears a gray suit. It's the one he's worn every year I can remember. He saves the clothing budget for the two of us.

Mother wears a faded green dress. It's very long and modest, not like the fancy dresses you see on live Capitol broadcasts. No, we're not silly animals here. That's the Capitol.

They look like 'em, they act like 'em. It's sickening to watch their roars for blood as kids my age or older are trapped and murdered. I don't understand why the crave the death of innocent children.

I'm thirteen. What if it was me out there? What would I do?

I'm sick of District Six Standard. We have it almost every morning. Brittle brown car wheel after brittle brown car wheel. I see enough wheels in the factory. I don't like imagining to eat them.

I must be even quieter than usual, for Mother comments on it immediately.

"Are you feeling all right, Alice?" she asks me.

"I'm okay," I murmur.

She's silent for a moment. Then she says, "The reaping, right? You must be worried."

When I don't respond, she continues. "Look at it this way, dear. You have eighteen entries. Nine mandatory, nine tesserae. The bowl will have thousands and thousands of names in it. And you weren't chosen last year, so why would you be this year?"

I try to find an answer, but can't. Then I realize it was probably a rhetorical question.

"And I have twenty-two entries," Leanna pipes up. "I have a bigger chance of being reaped. And think of the Outskirters. Some of them have ridiculously large tesserae numbers, I've heard."

"Again with the Outskirters," Father sighs. "What do you know about them, beyond the fact that they live on the outskirts?"

Leanna grins, and I no immediately what she's going to do. Sure enough, she falls into an impersonation of the stereotypical Outskirter child's slang.

"Hi, I Outskirter. I poor, I no has money, I dresses like boy, I dresses in rag, I no talks good, I Outskirter." She grins at us.

"That's bit of an exaggeration," Father says knowingly. "They don't always talk that badly, they don't always dress in rags, or _dress like a boy_. Where did that come from, anyways?"

"Alice," Leanna says simply.

Father looks over at me, and smiles. "Really, Leanna?"

"Hey, I wasn't happy about it. She just...decided to."

"Guilty," I admit.

Fifteen minutes later, we leave the house. Even Mother, usually the most talkative of all of us, is silent. I try to imagine what she's thinking. Me being reaped? Leanna being reaped? Gory Hunger Games deaths? _Our_ gory deaths?

I don't want to think about it, so I shove the topic away as best as I can. I don't succeed, though, and I end up imagining my own death at the hands of different tributes from past years, and a few that I make up.

Even a five-year-old from Two. When to they begin training, those brutal kids? Would even the youngest child be able to kill me easily? It's definitely possible.

What an embarrassing death that would be.

Finally, we get to the square. Leanna and I hug Mother and Father goodbye, and we go to sign in. When Leanna gets to the front of the line, the Capitol man grabs her hand and pricks her finger. _Brendon, Leanna. 15/YO_. I'm next. _Brendon, Alice. 13/YO_.

Then we go to our sections, and wait for the reaping to begin.

.

Three girls are reaped. I don't pay much attention, just absorb that it's not me or Leanna.

Mary Jane steps back to the podium and says, "Oh, n! We're almost half the way through our reaping! But we have one more girl left. Who, who, who will it be?"

She grins and picks a name. There's a horrible moment of silence.

And then, "Alice Brendon!"

Pure silence. And then it hits me, full force and terrible. _I'm going into the Hunger Games_.

Then come the tears. Pouring down my face, shaming me, saying, _Look at me. Crying. Dead..._

I stumble to the stage, hiding my face in the hood. Hoping they won't see me. But they'll see me. And they'll know to kill me, they will.

* * *

_District 6: Tyrus Duncaine's POV:_

I wake up late. Very late. Heck, why should I wake up early? The reaping's not until late morning. I don't need to worry about being late. I'd never be late. We Duncaines, we'd never be late. Only Ourskirter families are late like that. They have no life, no hope. But we live in the town. We're as rich as you can get in District 6. One of us, be late? Ha.

Half an hour until the reaping. No problem.

I get up, stretch, and put on ripped jeans and a graphic t-shirt. Oh, yes, I look tough. Like a Duncaine should look. Just look at me and tell me I can't win the Hunger Games. Exactly - you can't.

I glance in the mirror on my bedside table. I look very handsome, and I know it. The girls love me. With my dirty blond hair and green eyes, I look like Finnick Odair, even. Nah, probably even better than him.

I saunter out of my room, and go to the dining room.

Dad's already there. He's sitting at his normal spot, with his napkin tied around his neck, a fork in his hand.

"Hurry up, Colbee!" he shouts. "We're waiting, did you know?"

"Pancakes, coming right up!" comes Mother's muffled reply. "Be there in a second!"

Next to Father sits Trixie, my little fifteen-year-old sister. Like usual, her nose is buried in her book. I roll my eyes. She's a poor excuse for a Duncaine. She isn't my real sister, as far as I'm concerned.

Just then, Mother hurries in, holding a platter of pancakes.

"About time," Father grumbles. "I've been waiting."

Mother sets the pancakes down, and turns to look at me. "How handsome you are!" she gushes. "I just can't get over you!"

"You're just used to looking at Outskirters," I say. "They're taking over the district. I saw one of them in the Capitol Delight the other day. An Outskirter! Really!"

"Them Outskirters," Father says in disgust. "They think they can just walk into the number one store in the district? This is _our_ territory! How dare they? They can't afford to buy from there. And even browsing - "

"They bought a dress," I say. "For the reaping? A dress? Ha!" Father shoves a pancake into his mouth and says, "Deh tik deh're ah gooh ah us? Dos dihrepetful Outkirters!"

He swallows his bite, and repeats, "They really think they're as good as us? Really? And of all people, better than the Duncaines, the most frequent buyers, the best family in the district? The strongest?"

He starts to laugh, and doesn't stop until he chokes.

"These are some good pancakes," he remarks. "Make some more, Colbee. I'm hungry. I'm sure Tyrus is, too. Aren't you, Tyrus?"

"I am," I agree. "Ravenous, in fact." I pick up my fork and attack the pile of pancakes on my plate. I must have gone through six in that first minute. But soon, the serving plate's empty.

Suddenly, a small voice says, "You guys didn't leave me any."

Father glares at her. "You should grab the food when you first see it, or it'll all be gone before you know it. It's not _my _fault you decided not to take the fod while it was available."

Trixie looks at him for a second, and then she turns back to her book.

"We thought we had the best combination of genes possible, especially after Tyrus proved to be the boy of our dreams," Father rambles. "So we decide to have another. But you - you were _not_ what we had in mind. Toughen up, Trixie."

She doesn't respond.

"Colbee!" Father shouts. "Hurry up with the pancakes!"

"Two minutes!"

It's ten minutes later when the second batch of pancakes finally comes, and this time Trixie takes her share.

"I'm volunteering today," I say after I eat my first pancake.

For a moment, Father just stares at me. Then he lets out a booming cheer, and claps me on the back.

"Yes!" he cries. "Show 'em, son. Show 'em how we Duncaines do it. Smush 'em into the dirt, them tributes. You'll win, obviously, but do it _thoroughly._ You're better than them all. Show 'em that."

"Of course I will." I roll my eyes. "You think I'll be toppled by some Outskirter equivalents?"

"Actually, the Careers can be quite formidable," Trixie pipes up. "They _do_ win nearly every year."

I whip around and glare at my younger sister. "The tributes," I hiss, "are _always_ poor, lame Outskirters. Got it?"

She looks at me, biting her lip thoughtfully. "I'm pretty sure the Careers will be strong this year, like they are most other years," she says after several seconds of silence.

I bang my fist on the table. My cup falls over, and water pours out, drenching the tablecloth.

"Listen closely, little sister," I say quietly, dangerously. I lower my voice so Father cannot hear me, for I'm not sure what his reaction would be to what I'm about to say. "I will beat the _life_ out of all ninety-five other tributes. They will be so weak, so _inferior_, and they will not have the guts or ability to resist. And it's _possible_ that I could, oh, kill you as well, if you don't volunteer to go in also."

Trixie's mouth falls open. She's used to me being like this, proving that I'm the Duncaine that she ought to be, but I guess she didn't realize that I would make a threat to her life. Directly.

And mean it.

Oh, I mean it. If she provoked me to the point of me wanting her dead, _really_ dead, I would not hesitate to make that threat. And then, if she didn't volunteer, I wouldn't hesitate to kill her.

"The point is," I say, louder, "I'm going to crush those Outskirters. They don't stand a chance against me." I smile broadly. "I wonder, are there any smart points coming from my little sister?"

Trixie shakes her head mutely.

"Good," I say.

That's when I remember the water spill. I glance down, and see the soaked tablecloth. I groan.

"Mother!" I bellow. "Fetch a cloth and get over here right now! Got a spill for you to clean!"

"Coming, darling," Mother says, rushing in. She holds a third batch of pancakes.

"Ooh, great," Father says, rubbing his stomach. He grabs several more as soon as the serving plate is placed on the table.

I stare at Mother. "A _cloth_, didn't you hear?" I say. "Tell me, are you deaf, and didn't hear me _tell_ you, or are you blind, and can't see the spill right in front of your face?"

She gives me a blank smile. "Sorry?"

I pound the table in exasperation. "I _said_, are you blind, and can't see the spill, or are you deaf, and didn't hear me say _very clearly_ that there was? Because clearly there's some problem."

The blank smile on her face doesn't waver. "You know I live to serve you, dear. I did hear, and I did see."

"So why haven't you gotten the cloth?" I ask. "No answer, huh? Well, then _get it_!"

She nods, and hurries back to the kitchen. She soon returns, holding a rag. Mother gets to work immediately, scrubbing and wiping and drying the tablecloth.

"Hurry up," I say impatiently. "I want to eat more pancakes. They're going to all be gone soon, so _hurry up_."

"I'm done," she says brightly. Then she grabs the last pancake on the plate, and says, "Oh, yes. I _am_ hungry. Haven't had anything since lunch yesterday!"

The dinner had been spoiled and terrible, so I insisted that, to punish her, she couldn't eat any dinner.

I grab the pancake plate, and slide it over to myself. And...it's empty. I look up. Mother is holding the last pancake.

The rage sweeps me up. "Oh, you think I can go without breakfast, huh?" I demand, furious. "Give me that pancake this second, Colbee!"

She winces, as she always does when I call her by her name, and not "Mother".

To my surprise, Mother - _Colbee_ - doesn't wordlessly obey. She says, "But, Tyrus, I haven't had anything to eat since lunch yesterday."

"It was your own fault dinner was too bad," I growl. "And your own fault that you grabbed a pancake that _I_ reserved. Give it here, _Colbee_."

Mother hesitates, and then nods. "Okay. For you, my boy, I will do anything."

"Good," I say. I take the pancake, and down it in one huge bite. "Yes, I need to be well fed if I'm going to win the Games. Quickly, I mean."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm signing in at the square. Trixie is ahead of me. I glance at the scanner and read, _Duncaine, Trixie. 15/YO_. I'm next. I give the Capitol man my hand. He takes some blood. _Duncaine, Tyrus. 17/YO_.

I walk to my section, and stand in silence. And then Chase Pickman finds me.

"Yo, Tyrus!" a hoarse voice shouts. "Good to see you!"

I turn around. Chase is walking toward me, a false smile on his face.

"Happy Hunger Games," I say. "Your friend shall soon be a victor."

"Aw, man, you're volunteering?" Chase grins, and claps me on the back. "Show 'em how we do it here!"

"I'll be showing them how Duncaines do it," I agree. "They think they're better than me, they're wrong. They think they're going to win, they're wrong. I can't wait to kill them all."

Chase shakes his head. "Dude, they don't have a chance."

"They don't," I agree. "They have no hope in beating me."

"Claim the throne back for District Six," Chase tells me. "Got it, man? We haven't won for a few decades now."

"Oh, I'll win," I promise.

.

The four girls are picked. One faints, which is quite amusing. I'll take pleasure in killing her. Survival of the fittest. Of the _best_.

Then, finally, Mary Jane moves on to the boys.

"Aw, we're halfway done with this year's reaping," our escort says pitifully. She even dabs at her eye. "But at least we have four...strong...men waiting to be reaped." She grins at us, and I can tell she doesn't believe that we'll be strong.

Just you wait, Mary Jane. You'll see what I can do. _Anything_. That's my limit.

"I'll be choosing four boys, now, as you probably already know," she continues. "Of course you already know this. If you didn't, well...I don't even know! You've been living under a rock for the last few months! I'm going to take a name from the other ball this time, as I'm choosing a boy, not a girl...four of them, actually!"

She grins, and plucks a slip of paper from the boys' bowl.

"Now, our first male is - "

"I volunteer!"

I don't hesitate, or rethink my decision. Why should I? I need to show everyone, _everyone_, that I'm the best. That I can do anything. I know I am, and others will know soon.

I go to the stage, and see my destiny - riches, victory - unfolding in front of me.

* * *

_District 6: Coby Roose's POV:_

In my dream, Medrada is by me side. She always by me side. We stands in the big District Six square and waits for Tiffie to call the names like she do every year. Medrada cries, an' I cries, too. We nervous.

Tiffie call the girl first. She say, "Medrada Roose!"

Medrada leave me, and I cries, and says, "No, you can't go, Meddie, you can't, I needs you here! No leave, Meddie!"

I calls her Meddie, she turns around. I hasn't called her Meddie for weeks. Her nickname, we don't use. Medrada, Meddie. But me, I just Coby. I always Coby.

Medrada go up, an' Tiffie says next, "Coby Roose!"

An' I cries, an' I runs up to Medrada, to Meddie. An' she hug me, and I hugs her, and we cries together. An' we both be goin' in, an' we both be dyin'. 'Cause of the Capitol.

I wakes up shaking and crying. Meddie's sittin' up in her bed, rockin' clutchin' her knees to her chest. I looks closer. She cryin', too. She looks up, sees me watchin' her.

And she says, "Coby, I dreamt she pick me. She say my name, an' I went up and then died. In the arena. She kill me."

An' I say, "I dreamt she reaped you an' then me, and we both went in an' died. Bad, bad dream."

An' she says, "Coby, you only six. You's only got six entries. I, I's got twenty-four. I twelve, so I got lots more than you has. You's not gonna be reaped, Cobykins. You's safe."

"So's you," I protests. "You's not gonna be reaped like me. Jus' like me. We safe. Okay, Meddie?"

"Got it, Cobykins," she says.

"You's only twelve," I continues. "You's only got twenty-four entries, you. Eight...time three?"

"As it is," she agree. "We be fine. An' I be wearing a nice dress, Coby. Wanna see it?"

I grins, and scoots forward. "Show me!"

Meddie stands up, walks to the dresser we shares. She take out a black dress. Is a nice dress.

"Was Mom's," she say. "Is new, Coby! Is very new!"

"As it is," I agrees. "Where Mom gots it?"

"I dunno," Meddie says. "But was new. Is very new still."

She gets into the dress, an' I turn away. Momma say that what you do when Meddie changing. I obeys Momma. Always obeys Momma. Momma always know what to do.

Meddie look beautiful in her dress. I turns around, and Meddie says, "Show me what _you_ wearing, Coby."

I goes into the dresser and pulls out the best shirt I have. It an old, faded grey button shirt. Next I gets the too-small black trousers. I puts them on, and Meddie looks.

"You looks handsome," she says. "You looks great, Coby."

"You too," I says, beaming.

She says I look _handsome_! I dunnos what that means, but I knows it a good thing.

"Is there brekfix?" I asks.

"I dunnos," Meddie says. "I hopes. Brekfix is good."

"We had it Friday," I says.

"Today's special," Meddie says. "Maybe we get the special treat. Brekfix is nice. I's always hungry, specially in the mornin'."

I scamper into the livin' room. Momma and Poppa's wakin' up, tuckin' their blankets into the couch. They looks up, says hello.

"Is there brekfix?" I asks. "The wheels?"

"You mean District Six Standard? Breakfast?" Poppa asks, a tired smile on his face. "I'm sorry, Coby. We...we ran out on Friday. We had breakfast, and we finished it off. I...I might be able to get another box in a few weeks. And then we can have breakfast."

My face fall. I says, "But Poppa, I's hungry."

Poppa says, "I'm sorry, Coby. We don't have any food."

"Townies has brekfix every mornin'," I says pitifully. I starts to cry. "They tells me. They says they have brekfix every mornin'! An' then they say that Outskirters has no money so we can't have brekfix!"

"By definition," Momma says, "we are Outskirters. And we don't have the money to have breakfast every morning. I'm sorry, Coby. I know you're hungry. We're hungry, too."

Poppa glances out the window. His face turn pale, an' he says, "We have half an hour until the reaping! Oh, great. We're going to be late."

Momma tells me, "Coby, get your shoes on. I need to get Medrada up."

"She up," I says.

I walks to the door an' puts my shoes on. They's black boots. They my only pair of shoes. Townies at school says they have three, four pairs of shoes. It not fair.

Soon, Meddie and Momma and Poppa also come. They put their shoes on, and we walks out the door.

"Where's we going?" I asks.

"To the square," Poppa says. "You...you know about the reaping?"

"The girl an' the boy?"

"As it is," Poppa confirm. "Except this year she'll be reaping _four_ girls and _four_ boys."

My mouth drop open. "Four and four? But I thought she pick one girl and one boy."

"Not this year," he say grimly.

When we gets to the square, I tries to go with Momma and Poppa to the big line where I goes every year. But Meddie pulls my hand, and makes me go to the other line.

My lip wobble. "I wanna stay with Momma and Poppa!" I cries. "No, Meddie, you're mean! I wanna stay with Momma and Poppa! Don't make me go here! No, please!"

"You have to," she say. "All we kids goes here. Not like last year. Next year you be goin' over there with Momma and Poppa."

We waits in the line for a while. When we gets to the front, Meddie puts her hand under a black tablet thing the man in white's holding. There's a flash, and a beep, and words appear on the black thing. _Roose, Medrada. 12/YO_.

Meddie grab my hand an' raise it. The man take it, an' put it next to the black thing. There's a beep, an' -

OW!

I yanks my hand back, an' howl in pain. Blood bubble up an' my finger hurt.

The thing say, _Roose, Coby. 6/YO_.

I snufflin' an' cryin' when Meddie take my hand an' lead me to the back of the square.

"You waits here," she tell me. "When this over, I comes and gets you an' we go back to the house."

I nods, and she leaves.

I talks with my friends, an' then the mayor say something into his microphone, and everyone bes quiet.

.

The funny lady, Tiffie, say her name's now Mary Jane. She pick four girls, an' then a boy. But the boy's a volunteer. She take another name, and I feels panic. What if it me?

"Jonan Spoke!"

It not, an' I sighs in relief. An eight-year-old go to the stage, tryin' not to look scared, but he is. Mary Jane ask is he's the girl who fainted's brother, an' he say yes.

Six out of our eight tributes have been chosen," Mary Jane say. "It's not time for me to chose the third boy! I wonder how old he'll be. If he'll win. It's very possible, folks! So, I'm going to take a name out of the bowl now..."

She walk to the bowl an' picks a slip. I shivers in fear, an' hopes she don't say my name.

"Our third boy this year is...Coby Roose!"

I freezes. But Meddie warn't picked, an' so I couldn't be picked. That what she said, right? An' Meddie aren't up there, but she...she say my name!

Tears streamin' down my face, I walks to the stage.

* * *

_District 6: Carson Powers's POV:_

The room where we all sleep, me and the older ones, is really loud when I wake up. They're talking, and the second-youngest, my seven-year-old sister, is crying. I tiptoe out of bed and put an arm around her to comfort her.

"Why are you crying?" I ask, confused.

"Today's the reaping," she says fearfully.

"What's the re-pin?" I ask.

"_Reaping_," she says. "The lady picks two kids to go and fight to the death! In the Hunger Games!"

"The Hunger Games," I echo. I've heard the term many times in the past, but I'd had no idea what it meant. "What's that?"

"This year, ninety-six kids, five to eighteen years old, eight from each district, are going to fight each other!" she says. "And they're gonna kill each other! The last one alive is gonna go back home. But only one!"

I stare at her. "I'm five. You said five to eighteen?"

"We're all eligible," my older brother says, coming over to us. He's fifteen. "Anyone between the ages of five and eighteen might be reaped. We're all in that age group. And if you go in, you die. Painfully."

I frown, and turn back to my sister. "But...but you said one person wins, didn't you?"

"I wasn't born the last time someone from Six won," my brother says darkly. "Here, we don't send in winners. We send in the walking dead."

"_Zombies_?" My mouth drops open, and I'm reminded of the gory stories I've heard late at night, when they thought I was asleep.

He laughs. "No, not _zombies_. But they know they'll be dead soon. They almost always are. Our tributes haven't even made it past the first _day_ for the last few years."

"So...why do we compete?" I ask.

"_We_ don't want to," he explains. "But just over a century ago, the districts rebelled against the Capitol. The Dark Days, right? And then, a century ago to the year, the Treaty of Treason was made and signed. Every year, each district has to send in a boy and a girl to fight to the death in the Hunger Games. Twenty-four tributes. It'll supposedly remind us of those days of _war, terrible war_."

"War, terrible war?"

"Just quoting the video they show each year, kid," he explains.

"But...before, you said there were ninety-six..."

"Oh, yes." He laughs bitterly. "This year, they've widened the age groups, and quadrupled the tribute count. Some stupid reason. Since it's the fourth twenty-fifth anniversary, they've decided to give us a hard time."

I'm utterly confused. "But...why do they do this? Kids could die, right? Kids my age."

"Don't ask me." He shrugs. "Because they're a bunch of violent morons that think that violence is the answer to violence? _I_ don't agree with it. I might be reaped, you might be reaped, any of us could be reaped. Not Mother and Father, sorry."

I stare at him, horrified. "_I_ might be reaped?"

He frowns at me. "Haven't you been told already, kid? You have two entries in the bowl. Me, I have twenty-two. Out of thousands and thousands. So we _might_ be reaped, but it's very unlikely."

I look at him, scared. "But...what if I'm reaped?"

"Then you go in there, do your thing for as long as you can, and then you die."

I start to cry. "Really?"

"Look, kid, I'm not going to lie to you," he says. "You're little, and young, and inexperienced, and probably don't want to hear it, but if you're reaped, you'll die soon. I'd die, too. Maybe I'd make it a few days in, but I'd die soon enough."

"I'd die?" My voice trembles.

"Some other kid would kill you," he says. "Maybe it'd be quick, maybe you'd be lying there, bleeding to death, for hours and hours. There's no way of knowing."

"And...it would hurt?"

"As it is," he admits. "If you didn't die right away, it would."

"But I _might_ not die, right?" I ask. "I might be the one who wins? I'm big and strong, you know."

He just laughs. "Sure you are, Carson. Look, kid, you're only five. You're not even four and a half feet. There'll be eighteen-year-olds in the mix, I'm sure. Some tributes will be two feet taller than you are. You'd be at the very youngest end. You wouldn't make it a day into the Games."

"But I _might_ win, right?" I ask. "There's a chance?"

"Not more than a millionth of a percent," he says. "If you're reaped, you'll be dead within the week."

I absorb this, and then say, "But I won't be reaped, right?"

"It's very unlikely."

I nod, and say, "I'm going to get dressed."

I rifle through the dresser and pull out a blue shirt and yellow pants. I quickly change into them. One of my older sisters sees me and protests. But there's nothing she can do, and frankly, I don't really care.

I glance into the dirty mirror. I'm an Asian/Caucasian mix, which you can tell from a glance, apparently. I don't know what it means. The blue shirt and yellow pants look strange together, but I don't care.

I look at myself thoughtfully. My brother told me that when he was my age, this mirror was clean and _shiny_. I asked him what _shiny_ meant, and he said it meant bright and clear.

I don't know anything that's bright or clear. I asked him what it really meant. He just rolled his eyes at me and told me that the little shininess left in Panem, outside of the Capitol, is being "wiped away", so I'd better find it quick.

He said he could tell little details, even, like the color of his eyes. But his eyes, they aren't that colorful. They're dark, like he says mine are. But now the mirror's fogged and dirty, and cracked from the time I ran into it. It fell down and broke, and we had to piece it back together, and glue it.

The glue seeped out of the cracks, so now the mirror's covered by crisscrossing white lines. Well, they used to be white. But the dust has settled on them, so now they're grey.

Like everything else.

Mother and Father give us each a tiny bowl of the car wheels. They call it "District Six Standard". Standard what?

When we finish, I's still hungry. No, _I'm_ still hungry. Mother and Father tell me never to use the Outskirters' slang. Ever. We're basically Outskirters, but they've told me not to speak like the rest of the kids do.

But it's _cool_. When I grow up, and they aren't there to tell me not to, I'm going to learn it.

After breakfast, we put on out shoes and leave the house. We walk to the square, where my brother grabs my hand, and leads me to where the kids are signing in. I peek between two older kids, and see the two huge glass globes on the stage. _My name's in there two times_.

And if she picks me, I'm going into the Hunger Games!

Gory scenes from past year - mostly last year - fill my head. Me getting up in the night, seeing the screen, Mother finding me and rushing me back to bed before I can see even more.

And then I'd die.

I freeze. "I wanna go home," I whimper. "I wanna go with Mom and Dad."

I break free from his grip and make a run for it. But he catches me, and hoists me back into the line. By this time, I'm sobbing.

"Get a hold on yourself," he mutters in my ear. "You're not..._probably_ not going to be reaped. Just sign in with me, and I'll take you to the back, and after the reaping, we'll all go home."

His words blur into a meaningless drone. And then I see the front of the line. The man with the black instrument. And the bloodred fingerprints on the ledger in front of him...

I let loose a piercing shriek, and several passersby turn and stare.

"No!" I cry. "I don't want to! You - you didn't tell me - "

He clamps his hand over my mouth. "You'll be alright. Just be quiet, okay?"

But I'm not quiet. I don't stop sobbing.

When we get to the front of the line, my brother holds my hand out. The Capitol man grabs it. He puts it my the black thing, and then pain shoots through my finger.

The man grabs my throbbing finger, and presses it onto his ledger.

I'm sobbing like crazy now, and I don't stop until my brother drops me off at the back of the square. When he leaves, my sobs fade to gasps, and then to sniffles.

And then the reaping begins.

.

My heart skips a beat each time Mary Jane reads a name. But at first they're all girls. I don't know any of them.

The come the boys. There's a volunteer from the front of the square. He's huge. I recognize him as the boy who always terrorizes us younger kids. He picks on Outskirters especially. As I don't speak like many of them, I escape his wrath most of the time, but even I am not safe.

Then there's an eight-year-old boy, who's sister was just reaped. He's an Outskirter, and I've seen him around. But not his sister, I don't think.

Then there's a six-year-old boy. He's a year ahead of me, but I know him. He's everyone's friend. Even mine, and I don't have any friends. I'm sorry he's reaped. I don't want my friends to die.

"It's now time to choose our eighth and final tribute," Mary-Jane says cheerfully. "And our fourth boy. I've already selected seven to represent this district, but one more is still to come. And then the reaping will be over. Terrible! And you'll all go back to your wonderful homes and eat a marvelous feast - don't you just _love_ feasts? And chocolate cake is the best way to finish of a meal! Or maybe strawberry...or huckleberry... Oh, I don't know. And then you'll all watch the Games, and we'll all have a wonderful year!

"But right now I still have one more tribute to select."

Mary Jane goes over to the bowl and picks a name. I tremble.

"Carson Powers!"

My mouth falls open. My knees feel weak.

But my brother told me I wouldn't be reaped. He said - he said -

The tears come. They pour from my eyes, and race down my cheeks. They wet my shirt, and I wonder if I'll cause a flood. Because I don't want to die. Life may not be great here, but _I don't want to die_. No, no, oh no.

This can't be happening to me.

I sob and sob. My knees buckle, and I fall to my knees.

One of the boys behind me nudges me with his toe. He wants me to die. I don't want to die!

The Peacekeepers come and drag me to the stage. My hand is grabbed, and the Mary Jane woman jerks it up, and then down. I sob, and sob, and sob.

My brother's words come back to me.

_If you're reaped, you'll be dead within the week_.

I'll be dead within the week.

* * *

**A/N: So, at the bottom of my profile, I'm including a section about my stories. If I haven't updated in a while, check there. I might post a reason, or say how far I am in the next chapter. **

**There's a sponsor system, and I'll explain it at a later chapter, maybe, or you can read about it on my profile. You can earn sponsor points, and then spend them. I'll give a sponsor point to each of your tributes for every few reviews you send in. So, review, even if your tribute isn't featured in the chapter. **

**Rate these tributes from favorite to least favorite. I'll average the results, and they'll go toward sponsor points. The overall favorite will get seven, the second favorite six, etc. The eighth (last) will get none.**

**Note: You can list your favorites even if you haven't sent in a tribute. **


	8. District 7 Reaping

**A/N: Be sure to submit to Blue Tinted Raven's SYOT. **

**Here are the rankings from District Six:**

**1. Mercedes Jones**

**2. Jonan Spoke**

**3. Coby Roose**

**4. Belladonna Darnell**

**5. Meyla Spoke**

**6. Carson Powers**

**7. Alice Brendon**

**8. Tyrus Duncaine**

* * *

_District 7: Jeffane Stoil's POV:_

I wake up early and tiptoe out of the room. The room I share with the others. My twin, my junior by six minutes, my nine-year-old sister, Mika, and six-year-old Chiny. Or is she seven now? Perhaps.

I slip out of the room and go to the front door. I put my boots on and leave the house. It's not really a house, I guess. It's a shack, like the rest of the dwellings on the Outskirts of Seven. Which is about a third of the district.

Seven's composed of three regions. The richest people in the district live in the Town. They're mostly businessmen, and merchants, and people who tend to make more money. _Much_ more money. They're in the center of the district.

Then there's the Forests, where most people live. As the name implies, it's situated in the forest. There's a path that leads from the Forests to the Town, but if you want to get to the Outskirts, you have to beat your way through the underbrush. The weeds that our pitiful people can't manage to eradicate. The people of the Forests live in house-houses, not shack-houses, but they're much smaller than the houses in the town. The people are mostly woodcutters, which might not seem like a well-paying job. And it's not. But the agency sells the wood to the town, who sells it to the Capitol, and the woodcutters get some share of it.

There're also some Townies and Outskirters who are woodcutters. But the Outskirters don't get paid much, as the income's based on status and current wealth. That's good for the richer people, but life sucks here for the Outskirters. We don't get anything.

And then there's the Outskirts, where the poorest people in the district live. I live in the Outskirts. The people who call themselves my "family" also lives here, though they don't care about me enough to act like they are. The Outskirts must be the dirtiest, grimiest, poorest place in Panem. We have nothing. I, in particular, have nothing.

And that's why I'm going to volunteer today.

The cool air of early morning hits me as soon as I set foot outside. I shiver slightly, and close the door softly behind me. I turn and walk around the shack, to the very back. I grab the uneven wood jutting out of the wall, and begin to climb. I've been spending the mornings on the roof, watching the district, for years now, so I'm an expert at the climbing part.

I sit on the wooden rooftop, next to the small chimney. Or at least it used to be a chimney, before it caved in. It caved in back when my father's family lived here. In fact, I don't know if a single house here in the Outskirts has an intact chimney anymore. No wonder so many houses burn down.

I look around carefully. No Peacekeepers. Hopefully, by the time the sun rises, it will be six and the curfew will have been lifted. I got caught once, two years ago. I was ten. One of them on the night crew saw me, and came over to investigate. I didn't move, as I didn't really care what happened to me. Even by that young age, I had realized that no one cared for me, or ever would. In fact, I _wanted_ him to see me.

He climbed up on the roof and pulled a pair of sparking electrified manacles from his pocket. He got one around my wrist, and I was almost shocked to death. He was about to snap it around my other wrist when Chiny, five at the time, came running outside, having heard my yell of pain. While she distracted him, I got away. She was too young to be really penalized for breaking curfew, but they took Father in for questioning.

I hated Chiny after that. I didn't want my baby sister saving me from anything. She's the only one who _still_ hasn't learned how I work. How my ways don't expand to include others.

But there aren't any Peacekeepers today. None at all. I sit with my back to the broken chimney, and look out over the horizon. In the distance, I could see the lights of the Town. Amid the inky blackness of the forest, there are more lights. That would be the Forest community.

The trees go on forever, blacking out the landscape. I close my eyes then, and envision this afternoon with glee.

Dontie, the ever-annoying escort from the Capitol, will call some boy's name. And the two words will leave my mouth, and I'll have reserved a spot in the Games.

My family will never miss me.

There'll be ninety-six tributes. If I die, I die. No one will miss me. Not even myself. I will never regret it. Well, obviously not - I'll be dead. And if I somehow beat the odds and win, I'll spend the rest of my days in Victor's Village. _Alone_, I should mention. The others will not join me.

There could be no downsides to volunteering. I'll never miss the district, Panem, my messed-up life. Those people who always follow me, yelling at me, screaming at me, telling me to do this, to not do this, that they're my family. Blah, blah, blah.

I'm not one of them.

They know it.

I know it.

I'm not "one of" _any_ group. I don't belong anywhere, and I doubt I ever will. I used to cry about it when I was little. When I was four and five and six, and still coming to terms with the fact that I'd never be accepted. That I wasn't wanted.

I haven't cried since.

And I never will.

I've considered suicide before. You bet I have. But I don't want to help the others in any way. I don't want to give the satisfaction of knowing they've pushed me over the limit. That I'm as weak as they think.

I'm not weak, and you'd better believe it. Could someone who's weak beat up a sixteen-year-old a head taller than them? Who grew up in the Town, and isn't starving? Would someone weak pick fights - and _win_ fights - with people years older them and tens of pounds heavier than them?

No, I'm not weak.

The sun appears just over the horizon, staining the sky orange, almost too bright to look at. Like always, it's my cue. I need to get down, get dressed, and leave.

So I slide down and land lightly on the dirt. I slip back into the shack and pull some clothes from the closet. It's a grey t-shirt and trousers. Why should I wear anything fancy? What's there to dress up for, besides my death?

I change quickly, and leave the house before any of the others even wake up.

I walk through the old, broken houses of the Outskirts. When I reach the forest, I wade in quickly. I expect there are others here too, getting to the square early. The curfew has just been lifted.

I let my senses take over me. East until I hit this tree, the one with the bird's nest, and turn northeast, and walk until you pass under the broken tree. Then turn north completely, and walk until you get to the trail from the Forests to the Town.

When I break through the trees, I'm on a worn path that's been walked on for the last century. There are a few other people on the road, but no one I know. I follow the path up to the Town, and from there I follow the signs. I've never had the need to memorize the route, so I always follow the signs.

When I get to the square, there's virtually no line. I sign in with the Capitol man, and go to the twelve-year-old boys' section near the middle. I stand there for an entire hour before the reaping begins.

.

"Wasn't that a lovely video?" Dontie, the escort, warbles. "I know, I know! It was!" He shakes his head, smiling. "But we're on to an even more fascinating part. I'm going to choose the eight tributes!"

He gives us a huge grin, and I glare at him. He goes over to the boys' bowl, and draws a name.

"Sam - "

"I volunteer." My voice escapes for the first time in a while. I push out of my section and go to the stage.

Dontie shakes my hand, still grinning widely, and asks, "What's your name, sweetie?"

I glare at him. "Jeffane Stoil. I'm twelve."

I yank my hand away from his. I wonder what'll happen to me.

* * *

_District 7: Jame Stoil's POV:_

When I wake up, Jeffane's already gone. He often leaves the house in the early morning, when he thinks we're all still asleep. Before the curfew's lifted. He's strange like that. He's different like that.

His bed is rumpled, as if he hasn't even attempted to make it. Mother hates when we don't make our beds perfectly, but Jeffane doesn't even try. It bugs her quite a bit, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about any of us.

I guess that's why we've given up on him, too.

Back when we were little, Jeff used to be a happy-go-lucky _normal_ little boy. But when we were six or seven, he changed. Now, he's...different. He rejects everything, everyone. He's not one of us anymore.

And now he's completely separated from us.

But of course, when he gets in trouble at school - he's always getting into fights there - we're drawn into it. We're blamed. I'm teased at school, because I have the black sheep brother. I have almost no friends here, because of Jeffane.

Can you blame me for not being able to stand him?

I used to call him Jeffie. Can you believe that? But then, he started to beat me to the ground whenever I did. Sometimes, whenever I'd talk to him. So I don't, whenever I can avoid it.

We might be twins, and he might be only six minutes older than me, but he's five foot six, and I'm only five foot three. He's bigger than me, and stronger. We're identical twins, but we don;t exactly look alike.

Jeffane doesn't let Mother cut his hair anymore. He'll grow it out until it goes past his shoulders, and then he'll take a rock or something, and chop the ends off, so it's normal length, but choppy and uneven. I've seen him cut it before. He always cuts his fingers in the process. And maybe it's not by accident.

It's at it's long stage right now. It goes past his shoulders. As you can imagine, it doesn't suit him well.

It wouldn't suit anyone well.

When I get up, a glance at the clock tells me that the curfew has been lifted. The early birds will be trailing over to the square.

I roll out of bed, and painstakingly try to adjust the sheets so it does't look like I've been having nightmares and thrashing around all through the night.

Even though it's the truth.

When the bed is decently made, I go over to the closet I share with the younger two. Mika and Chiny, nine and seven, who both seem to still be asleep. And I expect they'll remain asleep until I wake them up.

I step over Jeffane's clothes, which are in a pile in the middle of the room. I open the closet and pull out a grey button-down shirt and slacks. I wonder what Jeff's wearing.

I quickly change into the reaping clothes, and I drop my washed-out PJs on the bed. I look in the mirror, and adjust the collar on the shirt. I grab a brush, and brush my short brown hair. It doesn't really need to be brushed, like usual, but Mother insists. She says that even though we're Outskirters, part of the poorest group in Seven, we must look and act impeccable.

There's not much I can do for the "act". I am who I am. But I do attempt to pacify Mother when it comes to my appearance.

I leave the bedroom and walk to the living room-slash-kitchen-slash-dining room-slash-everything else room. Mother and Father aren't there yet. They're probably changing, and getting ready. Usually, Mother would yell at me if I tried to eat alone, before everyone else got to the table, but as I'm meeting Kay Erbest, my best and only friend, she gave me permission.

As I said, Kay is the only person who hasn't turned on me because of Jeffane. He has a hard life himself, and seems to recognize my struggles. He may not be the nicest person ever - (who _is _the nicest person ever?) - but then again, neither am I.

I pull out the box of District Seven Standard. It's almost empty, and I don't want the others to go hungry, so I pour myself a very small serving. Half of what I could have taken.

For some ridiculous reason, the Standard Cereals are all based on the district's industry. Here in Seven, we're responsible for providing lumber. So, of course, the District Seven Standard is composed of grainy tubes, brown in color. It's a poor representation of wood. Of tree trunks, whatever. Whatever the Capitol demands from us.

I down the entire bowl of cereal in about a minute. I'm not even eating it that quickly, if that's any proof of how little I took. I hope Mika and Chiny give themselves more than I got. They deserve it more.

When I finish the cereal, I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

A little note about our toothbrushes: In the Town, the rich people buy their toothbrushes from the pharmacy, or one of those fancy places. They're _plastic_. Some of the Foresters go there, too. But the majority of Foresters, and pretty much every Outskirter, have different brushes. We make them ourselves, from what we can scavenge. Usually, they have a wood handle, and whatever softish bristles we can find to glue on.

I just made this toothbrush last week. It's very new. Mika and Chiny's are probably a month old. But Jeffane's? It's a year or two old. He uses the same brush until it gets so repulsive that even he can't use it. I don't know why he does it. Or why he does anything, for that matter. Anything like that.

I go to the door and pull on my boots. I tie the leather laces, and turn around for one last look at the house. Mother is going into the bedroom to wake my sisters up. Father is waiting at the table.

I step to the doorway of the bedroom. Mika and Chiny are waking up and rubbing their eyes. They greet me, and I say, "See you at the reaping. And...good luck. Stay safe."

I smile at them, wave to Mother, and leave the house.

I close the door behind me, and look around the Outskirts. The fence is just a few houses away. It's not electrified, like usual. I'm told that the part of the fence by the Town is often charged, but there's a gap somewhere along it, so it doesn't reach the Outskirts.

I look around at the shabby houses, and wonder if I'll come back. Because if I'm reaped, I'm not so sure I will. In fact, I strongly doubt it. My odds would be terrible. And I haven't trained. Not like those Career tributes, who've spent their entire lives preparing.

But I won't be reaped. I'm only twelve. I only have thirty-two entries - eight because I have to, eight for tesserae for me, and eight for both Mika and Chiny, so they don't have to put their names in more times.

Jeffane has eight entries. I begged him to help me, to support Chiny or Mika. But he said no.

And now I feel guilty for not wanting to take the tesserae myself. But I've taken it, and my name's in the bowl thirty-two times. The odds aren't exactly in my favor.

I walk through the houses, heading for the treeline across the valley. The Town and the Outskirts are the only parts of Seven that aren't covered in trees genetically engineered for quick growth. But I think I prefer the trees.

The Outskirts are completely silent. I'm the only person on the streets. I can sometimes hear soft voices as I pass by houses, but I tune them out. I focus on the soft treads of my leather boots against the dirt.

When I reach the trees, I turn around and gaze out over the Outskirts. It's situated in a valley, and I can see each of the fifty or so homes laid out below me. In the distance, I see the fence. It's shabby and old, and twenty feet tall.

Beyond the fence, there are trees and more trees. The foliage is so thick that it just looks like a dark green blanket covering the hills. I would love this view if not for the houses. But I've looked out over this valley for twelve years now, and I've grown to accept them.

I'm about to turn back around and head to the Town when there's a yell, and someone tackles me from behind.

I yelp, and tumble forward. I roll down the hill, and bump into a house. Groaning, I get to my feet. I know who it was.

"Hi, Kay," I say tiredly. "Good to see you, too."

"Good to see you," Kay says cheerfully. He walks over to me, brushing his black hair from his eyes. "How are the others? Is Chiny still the cutest thing on the planet? Does Mika still not trust me? And how's Jeffie? Does he still have that emo-weird-kid-I'll-beat-you-up look? Because the last time I saw him, he was looking _beau_tiful."

I can't help but laugh. Kay's weird like that. "Chiny...well, yeah, I guess she's cute. But she's seven. Little kids are cute. And I can't blame Mika for not trusting you. That hasn't changed. And Jeffane hasn't changed much, either."

The smile leaves my face.

"Sore subject, huh?" Kay grins at me. "Well, let's make it positive. Who says he'll be reaped?"

"I don't think he'd care if he was," I say. "He might actually enjoy it."

Kay laughs. "Maybe he'll volunteer."

"Maybe."

"He's crazy enough."

"He definitely is," I agree. "And if he _does_ volunteer, well...I can't say I'll be that disappointed."

I look down sheepishly. Embarrassed.

"That's harsh, man." Kay shakes his head, clucking his tongue disapprovingly.

"It's true," I admit. "He...he hasn't exactly made my life that great."

"Still." Kay shrugs. "If he was _my_ brother - "

"Let's stop talking about this," I say. "We should probably go now."

"_Let's go, let's go_," Kay mimics. "Well, fine, Jamesie boy. Let's go to the square."

We walk through the trees, following the route we take every day. When we get to the road, we're the only people on it. There's still one hour until the reaping, so I expect most people plan to cut it close, and come later.

I don't mind. I like the solitude.

We wander down the path, me in silence, Kay talking nonstop. He talks about odds, tesserae, past Games, what district is probably going to win this year, who should've won last year. Et cetera, et cetera.

When we get to the square, Kay says, "Race you."

He takes off, sprinting away, through the streets. He's already faded into the distance by the time I start running. I'm fast, but I know I won't be able to catch up. Kay's the fastest person I know.

When I finally get to the square, I'm panting, my hands on my knees. Kay's already in line, and it's clear he's had plenty of time to recover. I walk to the back of the line, a few people behind him. He slips out of the line and comes to join me.

"Slowpoke." He grins at me.

"You started first!" I protest. "You just took off! You didn't tell me we were racing until you had _left_!"

"I told you right before," he corrects. "And even if we had started at the same time - heck, even if you'd started earlier - I'd still have beaten you. You know, don't you, Jamesie boy."

"You're probably right," I mutter.

"I know I'm right," he replies. "I'm always right."

.

Dontie reaps the boys first, like every other year. He picks the name, and reads it. Well, he reads the first name. Because someone interrupts him.

"I volunteer!"

There are a few gasps, and everyone searches for the owner of the voice. But I don't need to. I know who it is.

It's Jeffane.

He walks calmly to the stage, amid gasps and mutters. _No one_ volunteers in Seven. No one. Even people like Jeffane. We haven't had a volunteer here since...I'm not sure when. Decades ago, I think. Definitely not in my lifetime.

Beside me, Ray gives a low whistle. "Man, you're brother is one crazy person."

I don't argue. Jeffane's always been weird. Different. But I was joking when I said he might volunteer. Surely no one _wants_ a painful death. I wonder if he'll commit suicide. Or if he'll fight. I wonder if he wants to live.

When the audience - and Dontie - finally calm down, Dontie chooses the next name.

"I wonder if we'll have _another_ volunteer," he squeaks. "That would be so _exciting_! I hope we do! Volunteer, someone! Volunteer!"

He unfolds the slip and reads, "Jame Stoil!"

"Oh, great," someone next to me mutters. It's...Kay.

After that, I don't hear anything. My ears are filled with a low hum, and my vision fogs up. My brain fogs up, and I can't think. My breath comes faster, and the horror settles in me. Dontie...he called me.

And then I can hear again. The square settles back into focus, and my brain is clearer than it's ever been.

As I walk to the stage, I'm already composing a plan.

* * *

_District 7: Acetonn Blight's POV: _

I wake up when Hope's pillow hits my head. I bet she's been launching pillows at me for a while now, but this one is the first that's made contact. I sit up and yelp. Hope laughs like crazy.

"Gotcha!" she yells. "Right on the head!" She taps her own head for clarification. "Woke you up, huh?"

This is why I don't always like sleepovers with my best friend. She loves pillow fights, especially in the early morning. And the fact that I didn't sleep well because of the reaping today doesn't help.

I sit up and grab the pillow. I hurl it right back at her. It misses.

"Missed me!" my best friend taunts. "Missed me by a mile!"

"Not by a _mile_," I say, miffed. "I missed by a foot or two."

"It's an expression, dummy," she says, laughing. "Haven't you heard it before?"

"Not before now," I admit. "And this time, I _will_ hit you."

I pick up my own pillow, and get to my feet. I chuck it at her, and she dives out of the way, cackling, sure I'll miss. But it catches her in the side, and I hoot with glee.

"I gotcha, I gotcha!" I yell. "You think you're so much better than me? I just hit you!"

I hop around the room, laughing. I shoot her a crazy grin, and she pouts up at me.

"I _am_ so much better than you are!" she insists. "_I_ have two arms. _I_ didn't lose one in a lumber accident, or whatever happened to you."

"But it was cool!" I say.

"_What_ was cool?"

"The butterfly," I explain. "I was chasing it! And I tripped, and the lumber saw thingy cut it off! And I was five, so I wasn't the smartest person ever, okay?"

"I'm sure it was bloody," Hope says helpfully. "Very bloody."

"It was," I confirm. I jump around the room, saying, "And I fell down on the conveyer belt thingy, and there was a big saw in the air, and then it came down, and my arm was there, and then it wasn't! And then Mom said I was going to have it cut off again! And we went to the hospital, and they cut the rest of my arm off!"

"Stop bouncing off the walls, Acetonn," she tells me. "You look like a hyped-up midget. Never mind that; you _are_ a hyped-up midget. Have you even eaten any sugar recently?"

I think about it. "Yesterday?"

I shrug, and then wonder if I can touch the ceiling. It's several feet above my head, but I'm short. I'm just over four feet tall. So it's not _that_ tall compared to other ceilings. I jump up, and miss it by...by a mile? Yeah. By a meter.

"Acetonn!" Hope sighs in that mother-imitating, reprimanding voice. "Calm down! You're acting like you've just had a cup of coffee!"

"Cough?" I stare at her. "That stuff my mom likes?"

"It might be," Hope says. "My mom says she loves it, but it's too expensive."

"Too expensive?" I laugh. "My mom gets cough a lot!"

"It's _coffee_," Hope says. "And your mom can afford it because you guys are richer. You live in the middle of the Town! We're on the very edge of town!"

"Outskirters never get coffee," I say knowingly. "Ever. Mom said they're too poor. But you're not Outskirters. You're Townies, too. You just live farther out."

"Mom says we can't get it as often as the people by the square," Hope says glumly. "But I don't care. It tastes bad. really bad. It's bitter! But Mom says it's an _acquired taste_."

"I don't like it either," I lie. Well, technically that in itself is not a lie. I don't like it because I've never had it before.

"So that isn't the reason you're so hyper?" She throws another pillow at me.

"I'm _always_ like this," I say.

"But maybe you're addicted to coffee."

"It's bitter," I say. Is it really bitter?

"It's bitter," she agrees. "And you don't need to get any more hyper. Or to eat any more. Or drink, whatever."

"I don't need to eat any more?" I stare at Hope, shocked. "Hope, if I don't eat, I'll starve to death!"

She chuckles and shakes her head. "Acetonn, you're eight years old, four feet tall, and you weigh one hundred fifty-five pounds. That's not right. I'm eight, I'm a bit taller than you are, and I'm nearly one hundred pounds lighter than you are. You can't eat as much."

"I'm four foot one," I argue.

"Still," she says. "You're spoiled. But at least you're not a spoiled brat, like some of those kids from Town."

"_I'm_ a kid from town."

"That's why I said _some_." She smiles at me. "You're sweet."

I grin at her. "Orange potatoes."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

Just then, Hope's mom knocks on the door. "Hey, kids, you'd better get ready now," she calls. "You brought something to wear for the reaping, right, Acetonn?"

"No, he's going to wear one of my dresses!" Hope yells back. She breaks into a fit of giggles. I can't help but join her.

There's a pause. And then, "Seriously?"

"No!" I call back. "I brought my own stuff! Thanks!"

Hope punches my arm lightly. "Well, fine. I call dibs on changing in the room! You go to the bathroom, okay?"

I don't get to respond, of course. I'm shoved over to my bag, and when I get my clothes, she pushes my out of the room and locks the door.

"Come on," I complain loudly. "Not fair! And where is the bathroom?"

"Down the hall!" comes Hope's muffled voice.

I find it, and go inside. I change into the faded blue sports coat and torn white dress pants. I look into the mirror, and laugh. I look _funny_. I brush my blond hair back, and stare into my eyes. Greeeeeennnnn...

I go back into the bedroom. Hope's wearing a dress, and it looks funny on her. I tell her this, and she punches me in the side, and tells me that I look weirder. But I don't.

We leave the room and go to eat breakfast. Hope plops down in the seat next to me. I wait for her mother or father to bring out the breakfast. And her mother does - but it's not at all what I'd expected.

"What's _that_?" I blurt out as her mother sets a large box down on the table.

"District Seven Standard," Hope says. "Haven't you had it before?"

"No," I say. "Mother makes me _waffles_. Father makes great toast."

"Lucky," Hope says wistfully. "This is cereal. It's...not very good."

I pour myself a large bowl.

"Not so much!" Hope yelps. "There isn't much left!"

"You can get more, right?" I peer at her, and then shrug. "Well, fine." I grab her bowl, and empty half of mine into it. "Happy eating."

"Thanks." She grins at me.

I take a spoonful of cereal and put it in my mouth. It doesn't taste like anything. It's just a long stick of tasteless, plain...food. If you can call it food, of course. It's not that good.

But I finish my bowl, and go to get ready. Hope follows me back to the room, humming the national anthem the entire way. We brush our teeth - Hope has a _wooden toothbrush_ - and then put our shoes on.

"Mom, can we go?" Hope calls.

"Sure!" her mother replies. "Remember to sign in!"

"Of course!"

We leave the house, and Hope slams the door behind us, causing me to giggle. She raises her eyebrows at me, but she's used to me being like this - whatever _this_ is - so she doesn't comment.

While we walk to the square, Hope continues humming the national anthem. It starts to bug me, and eventually I plug my ears. She hums louder, just to annoy me, and I skip to the other side of the street. She follows me over. Just to annoy _her_, I hum the American national anthem. The one Dad says is forbidden.

Hope knows it, too. She ships around and stares at me. "Are you _crazy_?" she whispers. "What if someone hears you? We're not the only people here, you know!"

I stick my tongue out. "So I'm humming something. So were you!"

"Yeah, but I wasn't humming something you can get arrested for humming," she points out. "Mom told me they'll turn you into an _Avox_ if they hear you!"

"Sorry," I mutter.

When we get to the square, Hope pushes in front of me, getting in line first. I protest, but of course she doesn't relent. Grumbling, I settle in behind her. Well, she'll get her finger pricked first, then.

But Hope doesn't seem to have any problem with giving the Capitol man her finger. I look over her shoulder. The device thing says, _Elder, Hope. 8/YO_.

I'm next. Reluctantly, I thrust my hand forward. He holds it up to the needle, and pricks my finger. I yelp. He smushes my finger down onto his ledger, and there's a bloody finger print. There's a beep, and the identifier-thingy reads, _Blight, Acetonn. 8/YO_.

I push past him and go to the eight-year-olds' section.

.

The first boy, Male A, is a volunteer. He has long, brown hair that's been cut in a jagged line. And he _volunteered_. Why'd he volunteer? He's weird. And then I recognize him - he's that boy they talk about at school. The one who's always getting into fights. But why'd he volunteer?

The next boy, Male B, isn't a volunteer. His name is Jame, and he's twelve. He's Jeffane's twin. They look alike, I guess - but Jeffane is a few inches taller, and his hair is much longer. But they're identical, apparently.

Dontie picks a third slip. "Ooh, this has already been such an _exciting_ reaping!" he says. "I wonder who our third tribute'll be! Male C, who will it be? Ooh! That rhymed!"

I wait. Everyone waits.

"Acetonn Blight!"

I freeze. Me? I had four entries. Only four. So how... I see Hope in the crowd. She's looking at me, horrified. And I see Mother and Father, too. They look paralyzed.

I had _four_ entries. The odds were in my favor. But... Oh, whatever.

I push my way out of my section, and go to the stage, accepting my fate. I don't cry, I don't do anything. I step onto the platform and gaze into Dontie's eyes.

I wonder how far I'll get.

* * *

_District 7: Benedict Scraw's POV:_

I slam the book shut. "This is pointless."

Keryl raises his eyebrows at me. "Pointless? How is looking up odds and statistics pointless?"

"Well, what is the point?" I give my best friend an exasperated look. "If this is so _useful_, surely you can explain how?"

"If we know the odds, maybe they'll be more in our favor?" He gives me an uncertain look.

I can't help but laugh. And I'll admit it may not be the nicest laugh ever. But really - how will knowing the odds make them more in our favor? It makes no sense.

"Keryl," I sigh, "_Knowing the odds_ won't do anything to improve our odds. In fact, it may discourage us to see how low our odds are if we go in. All it says in there is, _District Two has the most victors of all the districts__, _and_ District Seven has had the third-to-least number of victors_, and _The more tesserae you take, the less like it is that you'll win_, in the experimental odds section. Really, what's the point?"

"Dude, you're the smart one," Keryl says. "You tell me."

I sigh again. "Keryl, I'm asking you because I don't know why you think reading _Odds in the Hunger Games _will be helpful."

"I don't know." Keryl shrugs. "Because it's a super-cool book? And it's awesome to have an expert analyzer analyzing every single word of it over your shoulder? Even though it can be quite annoying? Especially when he's only eleven, and I'm nearly twelve?"

"Thanks." I roll my eyes.

"What? You don't think you're the best analyzer-person in the district?"

"Analyzer person?" I raise my eyebrows at him. "Where did that come from?"

"Do you remember what you said earlier?" he asks. "'If you take more tesserae, you're probably poorer, and starving, so you'd probably lose?"

"I was pointing out an obvious point," I say. "Why else would the tesserae count affect your standings?"

He shrugs. "Don't ask me. Remember, I'm the dunce. The Forester dunce."

"Of course you're a Forester," I say. "Do you think I'd be allowed to invite you over if you weren't? Mother would get quite mad, I imagine. She's quite a...traditional person."

"Yeah." Keryl's face lights up suddenly. "Dude, remember when you invited me and that guy over?"

"Bartin Menmor?" I ask. "Scheduled for March 8th, 97 PDD?"

"How do you remember that?" Keryl asks, amazed. "Dude, that was three years ago! Yep, that's the day. I think. And when your mom saw Bartie, she knew right away that he was from the Outskirts?"

"How could I forget?" I ask.

"And your mom, she got so mad," he continues. "Threw Bartie out, yelled for at least ten minutes straight. And I still don't get why they don't let people go to other regions. Must be some classing thing. Pretty stupid, if you ask me."

"It may be so the Town people with more power don't complain that the life here is as bad as it really is," I suggest.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Makes a lot of sense, actually. Ha. Actually. But, going back to the odds thing, it _can_ be useful. I guess it takes your mind off of things. That make sense?"

"Not to me." I whip my glasses off, clean them on my shirt, and put them back on. "What _things_ are you trying to take your mind off of here?"

"The reaping, obviously," Keryl says. "What else would I try to be taking my mind off of the morning of the reaping?"

"You have a point there," I admit. "But why would studying the odds of the Hunger Games help take your mind off of the reaping? It's more likely to make you think _more_ about it, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know." He shrugs. "Can we change the topic? I feel like an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," I assure him. "But, I should mention that you were the one to bring up the topic."

"Whatever."

"What should our new topic be?" I ask.

"Um, how many times is your name in today?"

"Twenty-one," I reply. "You?"

"Fourteen," he says. "You're taking tesserae for Elcra, right?"

"I am."

"But why?" he asks. "Isn't she seven? She can take the tesserae herself, and her total would only be six. Benefits everyone."

"I don't want to make her take the tesserae," I say.

"Logical. Very logical."

"Shut up." I jab at him with the book. "So it's not the most logical move on my behalf. She's my little sister, okay? I don't want to increase her chances of being reaped. I prevent that by increasing _my_ chances."

"This is a first," Keryl says gleefully. "Benedict Scraw does something illogical? It'll be all over the District Seven Times!"

"That paper is just filled with lumber accidents," I say. "Like that kid who got his arm cut off, and that old guy who was flattened by the falling tree."

"I suppose you remember their names?" Keryl says.

"As a matter of fact, I do," I say. "The boy who got his arm cut off, that was Acetonn Blight. He was five at the time. He fell onto the conveyer belt, and the saw cut his arm off. That was three years ago. And the old guy was Bronton Scue. He was eighty-seven years old. It happened last year. The tree flattened him after he severed it at the trunk. The bulk of it hit his head, and a branch pierced his brain."

Keryl winces. "Stop it."

"I would have thought that eleven years of watching the Hunger Games and replays of past Games would have made you less queasy about blood and gore."

"Apparently not." He forces a smile. "Or maybe it's just that today's the reaping, and I don't really want to think about blood and gore and stuff that might happen to me if I'm reaped."

"There are thousands of names, Keryl."

"Hey, the odds aren't exactly in your favor, I might point out," Keryl says. "In fact, your odds are even worse than mine. For getting reaped, _and_ in the Games, if you're reaped!"

My head snaps up.

"What?" Keryl laughs. "You think you could win the Games, huh?"

"No," I admit. "But I wouldn't be the first to go."

"You might be," Keryl says softly. "Can you fight, Benedict? Can you fight?"

"Maybe."

"Just admit it, you'd die," Keryl says. "And I'd die, and so would just about everyone else in the district. None of us would stand a chance."

"I'm sure someone could win," I say. "Someone who fights a lot. Someone who can't be taken down easily."

"Who're you thinking of?" Keryl asks. "Johana Mason?" He doubles over and laughs.

"If she was alive, she could win," I say. "She could beat just about anybody in the district. But she's not alive, so why would I be thinking of her? She died a quarter century ago, in the third Quarter Quell. Killed by the victor. In a fight that lasted a full five minutes and forty-three seconds, after they were forced face-to-face."

"How often do you watch these replays?" Keryl asks.

"Not often."

"Then how do you remember things like that?"

I shrug. "I have photographic memory, remember?"

"Ha ha. No, I don't remember." He grins.

"That's unfortunate."

"What time is it?" he asks.

"How is that on topic?"

"Because I'm hungry."

I sigh. "You're always hungry. Didn't you eat before you came?"

"Not much." He gives me an apologetic smile. "Oh, fine. Then let's go to the square. Did your parents already leave?"

"Didn't you see them when you were coming?" I ask. "They left right before you arrived."

"Why did they leave so early?" Keryl wonders.

"They're slow," I say. "They like meandering. They love romantic walks without kids. I don't know."

"Wait, Elcra's here?" He gapes at me. "I swear, I did _not_ see her when I came in. And she's been really quiet."

"She's always quiet."

"Well, let's get her and go."

I stand up, and leave the room. I call my sister's name, and she appears, slipping around the door to the kitchen. She gives me a strained smile, and waves.

"Hi, Ben," she says quietly. "Are we going now?"

"Yep."

I take her hand and lead her to the door, where Keryl waits. I put on my boots, and help Elcra with hers. She mutters a thank-you, and leads us out of the house.

The first thing you notice about the Forests is the trees, if you hadn't gathered that from the name. The homes are scattered throughout the green. The foliage is considerably less thick here than where they cut, because though the trees are genetically engineered to grow faster than natural, they rely on, well, quick lives and constant death. Regeneration. I could say that in a nicer way, I guess, but it wouldn't be as accurate.

From the doorstep of the house, I can see two other dwellings in the distance. One is Keryl's home. The other belongs to a family of three - parents and one girl of about four years. I don't see them often, for their door is on the other side of their house.

The three of us walk through the trees. We pass by a few houses on the way to the road. We live on the very edge of the Forests, and the road loops around through the middle. But it's a short walk, and it's not long before we've joined the trail of families, mostly children, walking to the Town.

The Forest is rather far away from the Town, as the land in between is used for deforesting. On average, it takes one twenty minutes to walk the entire length of the road. But as Elcra is with us, and she's rather small, it takes us half an hour to get to the square.

When we arrive, we sign in at the entrance, and I take Elcra to the back of the square, where the seven-year-olds stand. I give her a small hug, and attempt to withdraw myself. But she holds onto my shirt sleeve.

"Benedict," she whispers. There's true fear on her face. "Benna. What if I'm reaped?"

"The odds say you won't be reaped," I say. "So I'm sure you'll be fine."

"But what if I am?" Her dark eyes plead with me.

_Then you die, and there's nothing anyone can do about it_. "Then you go in, and give it your best shot," I say. "But I'm sure you'll be fine."

I can see she's trying not to cry, and she's not entirely succeeding. She wraps her thin arms around my waist, and then releases me. I give her a solemn look, and step back into the aisle. I walk to my section, and wait there.

.

The first boy's a volunteer. He's a year above me in school. I recognize him. Keryl got into a fight with him once, and lost. He Keryl's a decent fighter. I hate to say it, but I'm interested to see how far this boy goes.

The second boy is reaped, as expected. The interesting thing? He's the brother of the boy who volunteered. Poor family. He looks shell-shocked, and reasonably scared.

The third boy is a short, round eight-year-old. Acetonn Blight, the boy who got his arm sawed off three years ago. The one I was talking about with Keryl. His face is blank. He shows no emotion.

Things are going pretty well for me until the fourth selection. Dontie spends a full minute rifling through the bowl before choosing a name. When he finally decides, he holds the slip up like a trophy. He unfolds it next to the microphone, so we can hear it crinkling.

He peers at the name, and his face widens in a smile.

"Lovely! Our fourth boy this year, our Male D, is Benedict Scraw!"

My jaw drops. The odds were in my favor, were they not? Twenty-one out of however many thousand? But of course, the odds don't matter any more. Whatever they were, I'm in the Games.

I hear a sharp intake of breath from Keryl. I glance over at him. He stares at me, wide-eyed. I remember what he said earlier. I'd die. And he'd die, too, but that doesn't matter, because I'm the one who's just been reaped.

I try to breathe normally, evenly. I try to calm myself down. I try to conquer my expression as I walk up to the stage.

The boy, Male B, Jame Stoil, gives me a hand and helps me to the stage. I thank him softly, and go to shake Dontie's hand.

I stare him right in the eye, just as I plan to stare down the tribute who kills me in the end. I will stare until the last breath is gone from my body.

* * *

_District 7: Mika Stoil's POV:_

When Mother wakes me up, both of my older brothers are gone. With Jeffane, this isn't a surprise. He's always gone in the morning. He likes roaming around before the curfew is lifted. He thinks we don't like him here. I bet the others don't, but I do. I love Jeffane, though I could never admit it aloud. I love him. When I was very young, he was nice, like Jame still is. But nowadays, he's cold and distant. He isn't like anyone else I know. But I still love him, as I do Jame.

Old habits die hard.

Jeffane's empty bed may not be a surprise, but I can't say I was expecting Jame's to be deserted as well. He's usually there, with us, and doesn't leave until we leave. But today, he's gone.

But as I sit up and rub my eyes, I swear I see a fleeting glimpse of him, standing at the door. But when I blinked and looked again, he wasn't there, so I'm left wondering if I imagined him or not.

"Hi, Mother," I say sleepily.

"Good morning, Mika," she responds softly. "How did you sleep?"

"Not well," I mumble.

"Nightmare?"

"Yes." My voice trembles slightly.

"Oh, Mika." Mother sits down beside me and draws me into a tight embrace. "Don't worry, you won't be chosen. What...what was it about?"

"He picked me," I whisper. "Me."

"It was just a dream," she repeats. "You'll be fine today. Tonight, we'll all be eating cake. That's right, Mika. _Cake_. Chocolate cake. You haven't had that since your fifth birthday."

"Chocolate cake?" I repeat.

"That's right." I hear Mother's smile rather than see it. "Chocolate cake. And we'll all be happy and safe. Don't worry."

I'm quiet for a moment, searching in the recesses of my mind for something connected to _chocolate cake_. But I can't remember it, so I ask, "What's chocolate cake?"

"We get butter cake every reaping day, right?" Mother asks. "You remember the butter cake. The chocolate cake is like that, except...it's chocolate. It's really, really tasty."

"I had it for my fifth birthday? Is that what you said?"

"Your father and I saved up for months," she explained. "We couldn't get cake for the previous reaping. But then we brought home the chocolate cake, and it smelled so good, and it made up for it."

"I don't remember," I whisper.

"You were only five," Mother says. "It's fine if you don't remember things from that long ago. I can't remember much from when I was five. Just...the sixtieth Hunger Games, was it? I can't remember who won."

"Who won when I was five?" I ask.

Mother seems to be struggling to find an answer. "Um...I really don't remember, Mika. The ninety-sixth Hunger Games...the girl from Two, I think. Or was that the ninety-fifth..."

I remember that year, but just a bit. The boy from Four seemed to be the obvious winner, but then this girl took him down, and won. It was an exciting year. But I'm sure this year will be even more exciting.

For the Capitol, that is. For us, it'll be four times the suffering. Four times the loss.

And we're already up to our neck in losses, so I don't want to know what'll happen. I really don't.

"Chiny, are you awake?" Mother says to the motionless form on my right. "You need to get up."

There's no response. She's still asleep, though I remember her sitting up briefly earlier.

"Chiny," I say, crawling out of bed and going over to my little sister. "Chiny, wake up."

When this method doesn't work, I resort to the ever-effective backup: tickling. I'm only a few seconds in when she wakes up, giggling and swatting me away.

"Are you awake now?" I ask. "Are you awake? Because I'm going to keep tickling until you are."

"I'm awake, I'm awake!" she yells. She curls into a ball to evade me.

Laughing, I sit back on my bed. "Well, then get up," I say.

"But I'm tired," she complains, opening her big brown eyes. "I wanna keep sleeping. And you said that...today..."

"The reaping, yes," I say. "I don't want to go, either. But we have to. Trust me, I'd much rather stay in bed and sleep the entire day. But we have to go."

"Why?" Chiny asks. "Dontie picks the names, and they go to die. I don't want to. We can stay here. At home."

"If we don't go, the Peacekeepers will take us away," I say. "But you won't be reaped. And neither will I. And Jame and Jeff'll both be safe, too. We'll all be fine. And when we come back, we can have cake."

"But you said I _might_ be reaped," she whispers. "What if I am?"

I force a laugh. "Chiny, you're only seven. Your name's only in there three times. And if you _are_ chosen, then you get to go to the Capitol. It's cool on TV, but I bet it'll be even cooler when you're there in person."

"But then I'd die."

I'm silent for a moment, that then I say, "You need to get dressed."

"I _am_ dressed." She motions to her grey pyjamas.

"No, silly." I smile at her. "You need to wear that dress."

Her face lights up. "The orange one?"

"That's the one."

I get up and go to the closet. I open the doors and search through the contents. I find it immediately - it's the most colorful thing in there, besides my green dress. I take both out, and go back over to Chiny.

I help her into the dress, and then pop into the bathroom to change. When I return to the bedroom, Chiny is attempting to braid her light brown hair. Though she tries every day, though, someone always has to rescue her. Today, it's me. I'm not as good as Mother is, but I'm better than Jame is. Seriously, you should've seen Chiny after he took a stab at it.

When I've gotten her hair into a satisfactory braid, I notice how hungry I am.

"Hey, let's get some breakfast, okay? District Seven Standard."

"Okay, Mika."

Chiny slips out of bed and pads out of the room. I follow her to the kitchen. Mother has poured the cereal into all four bowls. She and Father sit at their spots, silently waiting.

I take my seat next to Mother, and Chiny sits down next to me. On her other side, there are two empty spots. Jame usually sits in one, but I don't remember the last time Jeffane's spot was taken. Well, by Jeffane.

We eat in silence, each dwelling in our own thoughts. I think about the odds. Chiny has three entries, I have five. Jame has thirty-two, as he's taken tesserae for all of us. Jeffane probably only has the eight he's required to have.

I'm worried mostly about Jame. What if he's reaped? He has far more entries than any of us. I wonder how far he'd make it. And what if I'm reaped? What would _I_ do?

Die, that's what.

* * *

_District 7: Hazel Finley's POV:_

I'm so relieved Jackson is only three. He may be an ambitious, strong boy (for his age, of course), but he'd never make it in the Games. If he was five years old, not only would he be eligible, but he would more like be dead by now, because it's not easy raising him alone. Mother died in childbirth - I was thirteen at the time - and Father...disappeared. Technically he just became an alcoholic, but he might as well have disappeared. He's left me to care for Jackson. All by myself.

I have to give Wyatt Baer credit, of course. Since I met him last year, he's been incredibly helpful. He's helped me with Jackson, and even gives me some money. I'm not sure what I'd do without him. Father's still a lumberjack, like most of the people here in the Forests, but he doesn't make much money.

Wyatt said he'd come today, before the reaping. He said he'd help out around the house, and then escort us to the square. Of course, this last part was accompanied with an exaggerated bow.

I'm awake long before he arrives. Jackson woke up in the middle of the night, crying and tossing in his blankets. I soothes him back into a restless sleep, and stayed by his bed until sunrise, unable to sleep myself.

My alarm clock rings at seven, startling me. I jerk, and Jackson wakes up. He grabs at my hand, and I lift him out of the crib. He's three years old, and shouldn't be sleeping in a crib, but there's no where else for him to sleep. My bed is a tiny cot, barely big enough for me. Father's bed is a two-person, but he's already refused to let his son sleep there.

And so Jackson sleeps in the crib.

I lead my little brother over to the small closet we share. Jackson says he picked something out last night, but he didn't tell me what. But he points it out now, and I help him into it.

I go through my side of the closet next, and pull out a dark green sundress. The one with the lace sleeves. I quickly change into it, and pull out black heels to put on later, when we leave. This dress was Mother's, like most of the clothes that I own. I wore it last year, too.

I grab my hairbrush and brush out my brown hair until it hangs down to my shoulders, and the bend in the middle doesn't look like it's a result of my _not_ brushing it.

I give the brush to Jackson, and stare out of the window. On the other side of the house, you can see the road that leads to the Town. But on this side, all I can see is the trees. There's not one house in view. The closest one in this direction is just beyond the thick wall of trees.

There's a clang as Jackson drops the brush onto the small table by the bed. He pushes it too far over, and there's a crash. I whip around and see that he's knocked everything from the table. He looks up at me, lip wobbling, an apologetic smile wavering on his lips.

"Sorry," he whispers.

There's a knock on the door, and I hurry to answer it. I struggle with the door, and manage to pull it open. It's Wyatt. He leans against the doorway, a faint smile on his lips.

"Tell me that wasn't Jackson," he says.

"That crash?" I shake my head. "Sorry, but it was. He smacked my brush down too hard, and knocked everything off of the little table. You know, the one by my bed."

"He knocked _everything_ off?" Wyatt laughs. "Jackson!"

My little brother comes running up. "Wyatt!"

"Hi, little man." Wyatt swings Jackson off of the ground, and sets him back down. "I hear you knocked some stuff off of your sister's table, huh?"

Jackson looks down. "I said sorry."

Wyatt laughs. "Well, let's see if I can clean some things up." He walks into the bedroom, and whistles when he sees the mess. "Man, Jackson, you really killed some stuff here."

"I said _sorry_."

Wyatt gets down on his knees and rights the table. I help him put everything back on top. Jackson stands behind us, fidgeting impatiently.

I stand up and brush off my hands. "Thanks, Wyatt."

He gives me a ridiculous bow. "You're welcome. I'm always ready to help, Miss Hazel."

I laugh, and push him gently. "If I need something, I'll ask."

"Ask? Wyatt the Daring will fix everything _before_ you ask."

"Does _Wyatt the Daring_ need breakfast?" I ask, laughing slightly.

"Wyatt the Daring does not _need_ breakfast, but of course breakfast is not refused," he answers. "And he would be happy to _make_ breakfast, if that is what Miss Hazel wants."

"Oh, shut up," I laugh. "I've got cereal. It's fine. Come on."

Wyatt drops the act, and follows me into the kitchen. I get out the District Seven Standard, and a few bowls. I give some to Jackson, and he digs in right away.

"Should I get your dad?" Wyatt asks. "It sounds like he's still sleeping. You know, the snores."

"He's probably still asleep," I agree. "I'd love it if you could get him up. Thanks, Wyatt."

He turns to go, and then steps back into the kitchen, and takes something from his pocket. It's a length of twine with a pinecone strung onto the end. He offers it out to me, looking a bit embarrassed.

"It's for you, Hazel."

I extend my arm, and he drops the pendant into my hand. I put it around my neck, so it rests on my heart.

"Wear it for the reaping," he says. "For good luck."

I nod, and he leaves the kitchen. I hear a thump and a groan as he wakes Father up.

"What's that?" Jackson asks, pointing up at the pinecone. I kneel down, and he cups his hands around it. "_Cool_. Do I get one, Hazel? I want one!"

I laugh. "You can ask Wyatt. Maybe he'll make you one. I'm sure he'd be happy to."

"Yay!"

Just then, Wyatt comes back into the kitchen, supporting my father. He leads him to the table. Father's a large man, muscular from life as a lumberjack, but alcohol hasn't treated him well.

As we sit down to eat, Father booms, "So today's reaping day, is it?"

"It is," I say stiffly.

"How many names d'you have?" he asks.

"Thirty-six," I reply.

"Twenty-six," Wyatt says.

"None!" Jackson makes a zero with his fingers and proudly holds it up.

"I've got none, too," Father says, thumping his son on the shoulder.

"You stand with him while we're in the square, okay?" I say.

He frowns. "Why can't you? I'm betting with the guys from the bar. Better for him not to be there. Unless you want him messing with those guys, of course."

I sigh. "Father, Wyatt and I need to stand in the sections. We can't stay with him, and there's no one else to look after him. You have to. Just keep an eye on him, okay?"

"Oh, _fine_. But you hafta come back right after you're released and get him."

I agree to this, and Father promises to watch after him. Still, I'll be relieved when Jackson is old enough to stand by himself. I don't want him mingling with the drunkards from the bar.

When we finish breakfast, Wyatt hoists Father out of his chair and helps him over to the door. We put on our shoes and leave the house. It takes a bit of pushing and rearranging to get Father out, but we manage.

When we walk down the road, Jackson is the only one talking. He talks about is school, his class, his new best friend from the southern end of the Forests, et cetera. I can't pay attention to him - fear is beginning to seize me. I know it's extremely unlikely that I'll be reaped, but what happens if I _am_ reaped? What will happen to Jackson? What will happen to me?

Wyatt seems to read my mind. He reaches over and touches my pendant. "Good luck, remember?" he says softly. "You'll be fine. And if something does happen, I'll make sure Jackson and your dad are fine."

"Thanks," I say quietly.

"But I'm sure it won't be necessary," he says. "We'll all be fine."

"I hope so."

Half an hour or so later, we get to the square. I give Jackson a tight hug, and tell him to follow Father, and to meet me outside right after the reaping. He nods, wide-eyed, and wishes me good luck.

Wyatt and I follow a group of trembling five-year-olds to the sign-in line. Wyatt signs in first. The black device beeps as his blood enters the system. _Baer, Wyatt. 17/YO_ appears on the screen.

I'm next. I give the man my hand. He squeezes my finger, and pricks it on the needle. He presses it down on his ledger. _Finley, Hazel. 16/YO_. I push past the table and follow Wyatt to the front of the square. _  
_

He gives me a quick hug, and whispers into me ear: "Don't get picked."

.

Male A is a volunteer. Male B is his brother. Male C is a short, round eight-year-old with one arm. Male D is a stunned looking eleven-year-old with large glasses. My mind wanders to another scenario - Jackson, five years old, called to the stage. Put in the Games...

But he's only three. He's safe. Unlike me.

Dontie picks the first girl. He reads her name aloud. It's not me. It's a nine-year-old with brown hair and wide eyes. The sister of Males A and B. I can't help but feel bad for their parents, and whatever other relations they're leaving behind.

"I'm now going to choose Female B!" Dontie squeaks. "Partner of Jame Stoil, if the letters end up meaning anything! May the odds be ever in your favor...Hazel Finley!"

I gulp.

At first, I'm not my primary concern. Jackson is. What will he do, with only my father to look after him? And Wyatt? But will Wyatt stay true to his word? Was his promise not just something to make me feel better? Because he thought I'd never be reaped?

And then I think about _my_ situation. Forget Jackson - how am _I_ going to survive? Am I going to be an easy picking, like many tributes from our district? How far will I make it?

My inside is boiling with emotions, but I keep my face straight. I conquer my expression and walk slowly to the stage. I don't look into the eyes of the other tributes. But I look at Dontie. I shake his hand, and step back. I take my place next to the other girl, and try to find Jackson in the crowd.

* * *

_District 7: Chiny Stoil's POV:_

I dream of Ajay. We are walking together down the road. We are four years old. It is reaping day three years ago. The tributes have been picked. They're a girl and boy from the Outskirts like us who we all know will die soon. The Capitol car with them in it drives down the road. I see it and jump out of the way. I yell at Ajay to follow. But she is not there. And then I see her: she is on the ground, covered in blood. She does not move.

Sometimes in my dreams I bring her back to life. I take her hand, and we walk into the trees together. And she laughs, and tosses her dark hair when I say she almost died. And I laugh with her, for she is still alive. She never left me.

And I wake up, tears of joy on my face, and remember. She is dead. It was a dream. But I try to believe it was not. I tell myself I am silly to think Ajay died. And I believe myself. To me, Ajay is always alive.

The night before the reaping, Ajay tells me to watch out. The car is coming. And this time, she is the one to escape. I am caught by the car. I collapse under it, and the screaming around my turns to a dull hum. And then I wake up.

And I remember that today is also reaping day. Like it was when Ajay died.

Mika sits next to me and she tells me not to worry. I have three entries because I am seven. And there will be thousands of names, so it won't be mine. And Ajay has none, but I don't want to tell Mika this. Ajay is for me.

Ajay is lucky, I think. She does not have to participate today. She's safer than we are. She should be happy. I hope she is. I miss her.

Then Mother and Mika and Father and I eat breakfast. Jeff's never here, but Jame usually is, so I'm surprised when his seat is empty. But Mother says he went to see Kay. I like Kay.

Mika doesn't, she says. She tells me he's rude and mean and pushes people around. But that's not true, because he's nice to me. And he's Jame's friend. I don't think Jeff likes him, either. Mika says they got into a fight once. But that was probably Jeff's fault. Everything's his fault, my friends tell me. Even they know him.

Ajay knew him, too. He was nine. She told me he didn't say hi to her anymore. And he used to. He used to say hi to me, too. That's what Mika tells me. But I don't remember it. I was a baby, she says.

Before we leave, Mother finds me my sandals. I haven't seen them for a while. Mother says they used to be red and orange. Now they're grey tinted different colors. Sorta orange, I guess. I dunno.

We leave, and walk to the trees. A bunch of other families are also leaving. We walk with the family of the boy who died in the Hunger Games a few years ago. There's a big sister who's even older than Jeff and Jame. She's twenty or something. And her parents are also there. They talk with Mother and Father about how the big girl is looking for a job in the wood-crating industry, or something like that.

I tell her good luck, and she smiles at me and wishes _me_ good luck, too. I say thank you, and she pats my back.

"Are you nervous for today?" she asks me.

I don't reply. I shrink behind Mika.

"I'll take that as a yes," she says. "But trust me, Chiny, you won't be picked. There is no chance. At all." She gives me a bright smile. "Not like my brother. He insisted on taking all the tesserae. That's why his name was in so many times. The odds weren't in his favor. But they're in yours. And yours too, Mika."

"Thanks," Mika says. "But I just can't wait for this to be over."

"May the odds be ever in your favor."

"Dontie says that," I say, remembering the wig-wearing, funny escort who comes every year. "He says that all the time."

"It's in his job prescription," Mika says. "He has to wish us good odds, and then prove to two people - eight this year - that the odds _weren't _in their favor."

"That's a pretty accurate way of putting it," the older girl says softly. "The odds in my life haven't been good at all."

"At least you're safe from this reaping," Mika points out.

"Yeah..."

The early morning light fades as we reach the forest. The run's rays are cut off my the trees. I slip my hand into Mika's and wordlessly follow her through the trees.

The road to the Town is very crowded. All the families are coming now, at the last possible second. I almost lose my grip on Mika's hand, and I cry out. She finds me again, and gets a firm hold on my wrist.

"Let's find Mom and Dad," she says.

She pulls me after her in pursuit of our parents, and I'm reminded once again of a crowded street, a scream from a small girl, a car roaring down the road...and then nothing.

When our family regroups, we try to navigate the crowded road, and soon the crowded street of the Town. It takes us a while, but we eventually end up at the square.

Mother and Father go to one line. Mika grabs my wrist and leads me to the other. As I lose sight of our parents, I begin to scream. I strain to free myself from Mika's grasp, but she doesn't let me go.

"We'll see them in an hour or two," she whispers. "But right now you have to come with me. We're going to sign in, and then I'll take you to your group. Okay?"

I can't hold in a whimper. But I nod in assent, and allow myself to be led to the end of the line.

The line is very long. It takes us a long time to get to the front. And when we're finally there, the Capitol man grabs my hand. There's a beep and I feel something stab my finger. I shriek and try to withdraw my hand, but he holds it tight. He presses my finger down onto his ledger, and it leaves a bloody fingerprint.

Mika is next. After she signs in, she leads me to the back of the square. To the rest of the seven-year-olds. She tells me she'll be right back, and then she leaves.

She doesn't come back.

.

I'm surprised when there's a volunteer. And I'm even more surprised when it's Jeff who goes to the stage. He stands there proudly, and murmurs his name into the microphone.

And Jame is reaped next. My eyes widen when I see him walking to the stage.

I don't know the next two boys. There's a short, round boy missing an arm, and then there's a wiry boy with glasses. I don't know them, but I feel sorry for them.

And then Mika's chosen.

I start to cry when her name is read. I glare up at Dontie. And then I glare at Mika for going to the stage.

The next girl is a sixteen-year-old who I don't know. I think she's from the Forests, though.

And then Dontie chooses me.

"Our Female C is...Chiny Stoil!"

Air rushes up my lungs as I gasp. I look around for Mika, or for Ajay, for someone who will tell me I'm imagining it. This isn't real. It can't be.

I find Mother and Father in the crowd. They're breaking down by now. Sobbing.

And then I see Ajay. Her dark hair blows in the wind that I can't feel, can't see. Her dark eyes stare mournfully at me. And her mouth opens, she's going to say something...

And then someone steps in front of her, and I can't see her anymore. And then I remember that she was never there.

I start sobbing. I look around through wet eyes, and everything blurs up. But I can still see Mika up on the stage, and there's Ajay, next to her... I take a shaky breath, and run to the stage. I hug Mika around the waist, and don't let go, not even when Dontie offers his hand for me to shake.

Ajay is safe. I wish I hadn't jumped out of the car's path. I wish I was safe, too. That I was with Ajay.

I will be. Soon.

* * *

_District 7: Camille Pineda's POV:_

Today, Bonsai brings me a button. Sometimes it's a piece of twine, and other times it's a metal twig. But today it's a button, green and threaded with grass. Bonsai always brings me the strangest things.

"Where'd you get this, huh?" I ask the fox, bending down to stroke his fur. "This is plastic, is it not? Who would throw away something plastic?"

Plastic is expensive, even for Foresters. I can't imagine where he found it.

Bonsai grunts and rubs against my legs before dashing off and disappearing into the underbrush. I take a few steps after him, but decide to let him roam free. He may be friendly with me, but he's still a fox, and foxes aren't meant to spend all their time with humans.

On the walk back to the the house, I pass my favorite climbing tree. It's tall and covered in branches. It's the main reason why I'm such a good climber.

It takes me ten seconds to scale the tree. I go as far up as I've ever gone. Any higher and I'm not sure the branches will support my weight. I stop at my usual resting spot and sit with my back to the trunk. I close my eyes and doze for a second.

And then I remember - I'm meeting Cloey today. We're hanging out for a while before the reaping. I squint through the treetops. I find the town clock and start. I've been in the woods for quite a bit longer than I'd thought.

Mother gives me lots of freedom, and I try not to abuse it. But I'd promised Cloey I'd come to her house.

I clamber down the tree and land lightly on the ground. I race through the Forests, as fast as I can go. I'm panting hard by the time I get to the small log house in which she lives.

Cloey sees me coming and opens the door. I go in and follow her to her room. We sit down on her small mattress.

The first thing she says is, "Did you know that twelve-year-olds, on average, have forty-three and six thirteenths entries each?"

"Wow," I say. "I have twenty-four."

"I have forty," she replies. "The average here, in the Forests, is thirty-two and one fifth. In the Town, it's sixteen and four sevenths. A bit unbalanced, wouldn't you agree?"

"Very."

Cloey's older brother, Richard, died in the Games a few years ago. Ever since, she's been obsessed with statistics, and even the Games themselves. It's a bit strange.

"And only just over five percent of victors originate from this district," she adds unhappily.

I laugh. "Aren't we lucky?"

"No."

"Any other facts?" I ask.

"Here you go." She pulls a large book from the shelf and puts it on my lap.

I look down at it. "Odds of the Hunger Games?" I ask.

"Haven't you seen it before?" Cloey asks, looking surprised. "I've had it for years."

"You've shown it to me before," I say, remembering. "It's...interesting."

"There's a second book coming out in the fall, after the Quell," Cloey says. "About percentages, apparently. And other stuff, too. I'm getting it as soon as it gets to the Town bookstore."

"Sounds cool," I say, though I don't find the Hunger Games as rapturing as she does.

"I'll show it to you when I get it," she offers.

"Awesome."

"And maybe by then we'll have six percent of the victors."

I laugh. "I doubt it. We had better luck in the first few decades. We haven't won for a dozen years now."

"Hey, that's pretty good," Cloey points out. "Jenniah Birch, correct? And wasn't your mom supposed to go in?"

"Yep." I nod. "Apparently they didn't think it would be good for the ratings, since she was pregnant with me. So Jenniah went in. Mom says she was surprised when she won."

Cloey grunts. "Everyone was. It's not every year that we have a victor. And, going back to what I said, one victor in twelve years is pretty good. It's just as it should be."

"But before that, we hadn't had a victor since Johanna Mason. And Blight, before her, and what's-his-name the tall dude..." I shrug. "The point is, we're not going to win this year."

"It's unlikely," she admits.

We continue discussing the odds until the alarm clock beside her bed buzzes.

"Half an hour to get to the square," Cloey says. "We'd better leave now. Mother and Father left a while ago, so it'll be purely out fault if we're late. And I don't think anyone would be happy if we ended up in custody."

"Probably not," I agree.

"I like your dress," she says. "Just noticed it. It's cool. Better than mine, at least." She holds up a plain brown dress.

I look down at my own. It's a swirl of pink and brown cloaking my body. "Hey, yours it cool."

"Thanks." She smiles. "But it's the odds that matter."

"Always."

We leave the house and walk through the trees. Cloey spouts more statistics, and I look out for the road. When we get to it, it's more crowded than it's ever been.

We walk along it, dodging old men and skirting around little kids, who are sniffling nervously. As we pass by the axe storeroom, I'm jostled by a small girl in a faded dress who races past. I roll my eyes.

_Ouskirters_.

We step off of the road and run through the trees. We travel much faster, and we soon get to the Town. I follow the stream of people down the street and to the square. When the stream splits in two, I follow the other kids to the sign-in line.

It takes a while, but I eventually find myself at the front of the line, facing the man from the Capitol. He holds out his hand, and I give him my finger. He pricks it, and his machine thing beeps.

_Pineda, Camille. 12/YO_ shows up on the screen.

Cloey is with me a moment later, and we go to our section, which is near the middle of the square.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," she tells me.

I force a grin, and hope that they are.

.

"We have now chosen seven of our eight tributes!" Dontie says. "Female D is still to come! I wonder who it'll be! Don't you? Oh, this is so _exciting_! It could be any of you girlies down there!"

He goes over to the bowl and plucks out a name. He rubs it between his fingers, and then unfolds it.

"Female D is...Camille Pineda!"

My jaw drops. Me? _Me_? Of all people, why me? This has to be a mistake. Something went wrong with the choosing.

But he said my name, didn't he?

Maybe he mispronounced it, and it's really someone else.

It's _my name_. Obviously he chose me.

But he couldn't have. No way. I have a life. I can't be in the Games!

Yes way. What else could have happened? And your life doesn't matter to the Capitol. Obviously.

I shake my head to clear my mind, and walk slowly to the stage. I breathe deeply, and shake Dontie's hand. And I try to convince myself that I'm dreaming.

* * *

**A/N: Please review, and rank the tributes from favorite to least favorite. You don't have to, but the reviewing will add to your sponsor points, and you can bend the placement of the tributes. And, speaking of reviews, I didn't get nearly as many for the last chapter as I got for previous chapters... **

**I'll update sometime in the next few weeks. Whenever I can. **

**If I don't update for a while, check the bottom of my profile. I may explain my absence or say how far I am with the next chapter.**


	9. District 8 Reaping

**A/N: I'm sorry. Really. I have lots and lots of homework, even though I'm only in eighth grade. And I'm super busy. Anyways, here's the averaged list from the last chapter:**

**1. Benedict Scraw**

**2. Jame Stoil**

**3. Mika Stoil**

**4. Acetonn Blight**

**5. Hazel Finley**

**6. Chiny Stoil**

**7. Jeffane Stoil**

**8. Camille Pineda **

* * *

_District 8 Female A: Kaila Espin's POV:_

I love little children. There're a lot of them in the household, and a bunch more always outside. They crowd around me when I leave, and I give them whatever I've managed to pick up. Some food. A cloth. Even a shirt, sometimes, for a lucky little urchin. They've all captured my heart, those little children.

And later today, nearly all of them will be eligible for the reaping. They'll have their blood taken at the gate, and then they'll stand in their section for an hour. And maybe they'll be reaped. And they'll die a painful death.

Because of the Capitol.

Why must children pay for the crimes of our ancestors? These little kids, these five-year-olds and six-year-olds and seven-year-olds, they haven't done anything to the Capitol. Yet they've been starved, neglected...tortured. It isn't right. I will forever hate the Capitol.

The people my age, the other fourteen-year-olds, other teenagers, they ask me why I care about the kids. Why I care about anyone beyond myself. Beyond Aga and Mila, my younger sisters. Why do I care?

I care because I want to support the next generation. I don't want the Capitol to wipe us out. To win. I want the next generation to be strong. To survive. And because no one else will help the children of the district. I love them, and I do not want them to die.

I cannot let them die. It would kill me.

Half a dozen other children sleep in the room. One is Aga, twelve years old. Another is Mila, 8. Their young faces look even fresher, purer, as they sleep. As they float somewhere where there is no Panem. Where there is no Capitol. Somewhere with peace. Even Aga, the hardest of us all, still dreams of such places.

The other children are homeless. Eight is filled with them - loners, without family or anyone who can support them. They're dirty, or at least they are until I let them dip in the water we cart back to the house from the well.

Some of the children sleep in Sector E, the poorest sector. Some legally live there, with guardians who can barely support them. But most dwell in the broken-down, abandoned buildings there. They scavenge, and are the thinnest people you've ever laid eyes on. Sometimes I hate to even look at them, to see the toll that life as a Sector E child has taken on them.

Sector A includes the Mayor's house, the square, and the homes of the richest people of Eight. The biggest factory is located there, though most of the factories are is Sectors B and C. That's where the more middle-class people live. My mother used to live there, she says. She still goes there every day, where she works in a sewing factory. Sectors B and C are by far the largest, and most populated.

I live in Sector D. We're the second poorest of the sectors. There are a few small factories, but most of the people here work in B or C. D is dirty and cramped, and the conditions are terrible. But it's better than E.

Sector E is the smallest. It consists of dozens of broken down, old buildings. Several families reside in the abandoned homes. They don't work - they're just scavengers. It's an insult among the rest of us - if you're called a Scavenger, or a Sector E, it means you're a poor, dirty, hopeless urchin. At least, that's what the bullies say.

I don't consider it an insult. I consider it a misfortune.

Four of the Scavengers are sprawled out on the hard, wooden floor of the bedroom. I'm on my mattress, and Aga and Mila are sharing another. Last night, when I was going to get into bed, one of the children, and eight-year-old girl named Thimble, was sleeping on the mattress. I had to move her over so I could get on.

But when I wake up, she's gone. She isn't in the room. It's dangerous to be out after curfew, but she's wily and intelligent, and the Peacekeepers will never catch her.

I'm used to the kids leaving early, so I don't worry. Well, any more than I usually do. Few of them ever stay the whole night. At least one of the children who are now here wasn't here last night.

My bedroom window is always unlocked. They all know that.

"Kaila," someone whispers.

It's Aga. She's on her stomach on her bed, her chin in her hands.

"Yeah?" I whisper. "Everything okay?"

"Yes." She hesitates. "It's just..."

"Nightmare?" I slip out of bed and kneel by my little sister. "I had one, too, Aga, it's okay..."

"I don't have nightmares," Aga insists. It's a lie, but like most children in the district, Aga can't look weak. She can't. "I just...I need to get up. I think I'm suffocating. Too many people in here. And...I don't want it to be the last..."

She doesn't finish her thought, but I get the message. I look outside to gauge the time.

"You can leave," I say. "I'll get the others out soon. In ten minutes or so. There's still two hours until the reaping, but we still have to get ready."

Aga nods, and stands up. "Are you giving them clothes again? Like you did last year?"

"Yes," I answer. "If they don't have something to wear, I'll give them something."

"Even the boys?" A smile plays on Aga's lips. "You going to put 'em in dresses?"

I laugh slightly. "Of course not. They...if they truly have nothing to wear, I can give them some of my old clothing...yours and Mila's, that is."

Aga rolls her eyes. "You are _not_ giving my clothes to some Scavengers. They can wear what they're wearing right now. They all have _something_ to wear, even if it isn't exactly...nice."

She leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I keep my eyes fixated on the door, wondering what'll happen later today. What if one of my kids are reaped? Jason? Thimble? Those quiet little children, who take so much tesserae. They would never survive the Games.

And Mila and Aga? What if they're chosen? Mila is too sweet, she'd never be able to kill anyone, or fight, or do anything. Aga would last longer. She'd fight until her last breath, she'd never go down easily...but she'd go down. We all would.

I hope it's only the bullies who are reaped. Cade Spyloft, for example - the meanest kid in the district. The worst bully. The rich boy from Sector A who wanders the streets of the poorer sectors, looking for smaller children to terrorize. If he was reaped, I hate to say it, but it would be a dream come true.

I really hate to say it. I wish everyone was happy and safe, and he wasn't a bully, so I wouldn't have to wish him dead. Or gone. Gone would be better, even though he's one of the few people I've ever hated in my life.

I imagine Puara, our escort, calling his name, and him going to the stage, maybe even crying, even though that's something Cade Spyloft would never do. But in my fantasy he sobs, and apologizes to me, to the children, to the district. And I feel a bit sorry for him, but I know he'll never bother me or the kids again. Ever.

I hate myself for hoping he'll be reaped. I really do. But I hate him, too.

There's some commotion in the kitchen that I can hear even from here. It sounds like Aga's dropped the entire box of District Eight Standard on her toe. I shake my head. She can be so clumsy sometimes.

I decide to take that as my cue. I stand up and clap my hands. The Scavengers have lived their entire lives in fear of being caught and taken away. They're remarkably light sleepers.

A split second after I clap, they're on their feet, clutching the blankets I've loaned them, eyes darting around before they see me and remember they're safe. For now.

I smile apologetically. "Sorry," I say. "You need to get up now, or you'll be late to the reaping. If you want, you can go back...home, but anyone who wants some Standard can have some."

"District Eight Standard?" It's Jason. The six-year-old's husky voice is surprised and hopeful. "The cereal?"

"The cereal," I confirm. "Want any?"

"I do!" he says. "I haven't had cereal since...last time I came. A while ago."

Two months, to be exact. "Have you had breakfast since then?" I ask. "At all?"

"No." He shakes his head. "Momma used to give me it sometimes, but she gone now. She died in the winter. She gone..."

"_She's_," I correct softly.

"She's."

"Well, come over any day," I tell Jason. "Mother and Father leave early, so they won't know if I give you cereal." I look up at the other three Scavengers, and Mila. "Come on, guys," I say. "Aga's getting the cereal. It's in the kitchen."

I lead the four Scavengers from the bedroom. They follow me through the narrow hall, past the bathroom, and into the small kitchen. Aga's sitting at the table, slowly munching on a spoonful of District Eight Standard.

"Good morning," she says. "Nice to see that I'm not the only person awake. Really, I'm surprised you didn't wake up when I left."

"I did." I grin at her.

She rolls her eyes. "You were already awake. _I_ didn't wake you up."

"No, you didn't." My nightmare did.

I go over to the tiny cabinet where the utensils and plates are kept. I pull out six bowls, and hand one to each of the kids, keeping one for myself. Then, I pick up the cereal box and go around, pouring some into each bowl. I hand them each a spoon, but they don't notice. They're already digging in.

When Jason asks for more, I reach for the box, but Aga stops me.

"Kaila," she says, "you can't. Mom and Dad will notice, and that'll be the end of you. It's bad enough that you're handing out several more servings than they expect. You're lucky they don't know. But they _will_ find out it you give out eight extra servings every morning."

I want to argue, but I know she's right. I peer into the large box, and pretend to be disappointed.

"There's no more, anyways," I say. "Sorry, guys. There's no more."

Jason looks slightly suspicious, but he's too short to see into the box, so he doesn't argue.

"Well...thanks," he says. "I'll go now. Maybe...maybe Poppa's got something to eat." He looks doubtful. "But I dunno if he'll know I was gone. Maybe he'll think he already gave it to me."

"Don't worry," I say. I try to sound warm. "About today, too. You'll be fine."

I lead the Scavengers to the door. I hold it open for them while they leave.

"You'll be safe," I echo. But I know I can't guarantee it. Several of these children have twenty entries, even thirty. I can't promise anything. Sometimes I think I'm reassuring myself more than I am them.

But they're children. Surely they can hope.

.

An hour later, I'm in the square. I'm standing near the middle, maybe a bit closer to the front, with the rest of the fourteen-year-olds. I turn aroun periodically to look at Mila and Aga. Farther behind them, I scan the crowd for Jason and the others. I can't find any of them.

Puara takes the stage. She wears a bright yellow dress and a huge wig.

"Welcome, welcome, District Eight!" she says. "I'm your escort, Puara, and I'm _delighted_ to choose the tributes for the second time! From this district, that is. I started off in Twelve, a few years ago, I skipped Eleven, and went to ten for about five years. I was in Nine for one year, but I asked for Eight, so they gave me Eight! And here I am!"

She bows, smiling hugely.

"As you know, I am Puara, and I'm going to choose four lovely ladies and four gentle gentlemen to represent this awesome district in the fourth Quarter Quell!"

She teeters over to the girl's bowl and chooses a name.

"Ladies first!"

I close my eyes. _Not me, please not me...and not Aga, oh no, not Aga...andf not Mila, I couldn't bear it if it were Mila...and not one of the Scavengers...not Thimble, not Aigla, not any of them... Not me..._

"Kaila Espin! Where is Kaila Espin? Female A, where are you?"

My eyes fly open. I stare around me. Kaila Espin. Me. But I...I...

I look behind me, searching for Aga, for Mila, for Mother, for Father, for any of the kids. I can't find any of them, and panic rises in my stomach. I see myself dying - being tortured to death, being killed in cold blood, never getting to say anything to my family...

I take a deep breath and try to calm down, but I can't. Step by step, I move to the stage. I try to pretend it isn't me, that I'm walking to school, with my sisters by my side.

When I reach the stage, I shake Puara's hand. Then I turn away and stare at the crowd. I still can't find anyone. Unfamiliar faces loom up at me. I look away, and begin to cry.

* * *

_District 8 Female B: Jadah Ja Rin's POV:_

Some kids my age work in the factory. Some are homebodies, and never leave their house. Some are Scavengers, and spend their days hunting for something to eat. Some of the richest Sector A kids have enough money to shop in the fancy stores near the square. Me? I tend sheep.

That's right -sheep. Here in Eight, we're responsible for textiles. The district, especially Sectors B and C, are full of factories. You might think that everyone works in these factories, but ever wonder where they get their wool?

From us. From the people who own farms away from the factories, away from the bulk of the district. We're technically in Sector D, which claims most of the land around the town.

We raise the sheep, and shear them. Mother's responsible for exporting the wool to the factories. It's better than what I've heard town life is like. Sector A is full of rich snobs, and infamous bullies. Sectors B and C are full of factories, with dirty and crowded conditions. Bad. D is also really crowded, population-wise, but most people there - here - work in the factories of B and C. And E is full of abandoned buildings. The Scavengers live there. They're skinny and malnourished, and spend their days hunting for food. As I mentioned before, I believe.

But here, out of the town, it's pretty nice. That's relative, of course, but we get enough to eat, and we don't only inhale dirty, mucky city air. And the population density out here is about fifty times less than in the town.

I've been tending the sheep for years. Father taught me how when I was little. He instructed me on how to kill predators and how to not let the sheepies escape. When I was six, he'd let me herd the sheep myself - under his supervision, of course. But by the time I was seven, he was letting me do it all alone.

I'm thirteen now. I'm pretty good at it. Nothing much has happened since I was twelve, that time when the wolf got into the pen at night. I shot it, but not before it killed quite a few sheep.

The morning of the reaping, I get up early to watch the sheep. I always get up long before most people my age do, because I have to watch the sheep. I spend hours every morning with the little animals, before school.

Or, like today, before the reaping.

Really, the reaping is ridiculous. People dress up in fancy clothes so they can go to watch the selection of who's going to die in a few weeks. And they pretend to be happy, because the Capitol tells them to. And they clap when the poor kid is chosen, even when they cry, because they're afraid of the Capitol.

Really, I'd go around ranting about it for hours if there wasn't the fact that if the Peacekeepers heard, they'd probably take me away and torture me to death. In all honesty, I'd sort of prefer that _not_ to happen.

But when I wake up, I don't get dressed in some fancy dress. Instead, I put on jeans and a black t-shirt. I don't bother to brush my black hair. I go to the door and put on running shoes.

I leave the house and go over to the pen. The white balls of living wool mill around inside. When I go in, they rub against my legs. Some of them try to escape, but I know from experience to close it as soon as I step inside.

When I was little, I used to let several of them out when I went inside. I didn't know how Father could close the door behind him so smoothly, and not let any sheep out. But he taught me, and now when the sheep go out, it's because I let them out.

Usually.

When I sit down on my usual seat, I see a note taped to the wall. I grab it.

_Jadah,_

_The baby has been kicking. Whenever I try to shear the wool, I end up cutting myself. I would greatly appreciate it you would finish the job. My quota requires seven sheep for the day after the reaping. _

_Love, Mother_

The baby again? Mother is four months pregnant, and she always complains about the baby kicking her. I'm used to her asking me to finish her jobs. I usually shear a sheep or two each morning, to lighten her workload, but she usually does the rest.

Only seven sheep's worth of wool for tomorrow? Usually it's more. Nine or ten, often. There aren't that many sheep farms in this district, so each farm needs to produce a lot of wool. Ten helps out some, but for the most part, we're on our own.

I sit down and grab the sheep nearest me. I take the shears from the shelf, and get to work.

It takes me about an hour to shear the seven sheep. I let each naked sheep go, and place the wool in the basket. When I've finished, I shear another two, just to kill time. Also, if Mother can't work, this would be a good time to make up for it.

When I've finished, I put down the shears and go to the door of the pen. I open it, and let out the sheep, counting them as they exit.

"Six, seven, eight...thirteen...twenty, twenty-one...thirty-three...and, fifty-two." I pat the lamb at the end of the train, and go back to the front.

The numbers used to overwhelm me. The masses of wool would scare me, and I'd hide behind Father. But not anymore. I've accepted the sheep, and they've accepted me. And also, I know that we don't have as many sheep as some farms do.

I'm serious. Some of them have over a hundred. It's crazy. Once, when I was little, we went over to another farm for dinner, and the masses of sheep overwhelmed me, and...yeah. But I was little then.

I lead the sheep around the grassy plain, letting them graze and, well, be sheep. When it gets to the point when they're just following me around, and not doing much else, I lead them back into the pen. It's time for me to eat something, too.

I go back inside. Mother and Father are sitting at the table, eating tesserae mix. Mother is weighted down by her growing stomach, and the baby in it. There's a third bowl in front of the empty chair.

"For the baby, I assume?" I say, gesturing at the bowl.

"Of course it is," Father says. "But I'm sure it wouldn't mind if you ate it for it."

"_She_ or _he_," Mother corrects. "Not _it_. It's a baby, Jarek. It's like calling Jadah _it_. Or me. Or you. Or President Peak. Or the Mayor. Or - "

"Point taken," Father says with false cheerfulness. "Sorry."

I sit down and dig into the tesserae grain. "Delicious as always." I roll my eyes.

"I get the feeling you're being sarcastic." Mother waves her spoon at me. "Sarcasm, correct?"

"Why?" I give her an innocent look. "Is it - wait, is it actually possible to like this?"

"It's food," Father says. "Would you like to live without food? You'd die."

"That explains the high death rates in Sector E," I say cheerfully.

"It does." Father shakes his head. "And their high tesserae counts. They take so much tesserae, and they get reaped. Speaking of tesserae, if you don't want to eat this, don't take the tesserae next year. You'll have...three entries, right? And you probably won't be reaped, but it won't matter, because we'll all be starved to death."

"We wouldn't _starve_," I insist.

"Maybe not."

"Well, this possible future won't matter much if we're late for the reaping, and they take us in," Mother says matter-of-factly. "So I suggest we get ready to leave soon. Ten minutes, how about? I'll wash the dishes when we get back."

It's eleven minutes later when we leave. We were ready at ten minutes, but I procrastinated. Just to procrastinate, you know. Mother gives me her annoyed look, but I'm used to it, so it doesn't bug me.

We walk down the dusty road. We pass the other sheep farms. The buildings are deserted. We must be later than I'd thought. I pick up my pace slightly. Maybe I'll be able to talk a bit with Kaley before the reaping. Well, not really talk _with_ her. It's more that I talk, and she listens.

I think she listens, that is.

The out-of-town portion of Sector D is completely filled with sheep farms, primarily. There's a single factory, but it's on the other side of the town. Bit on this side of the town, the farms are neck-to-neck. We pass one boundary, and we're walking by someone else's farm. There's no unclaimed territory. We're fighting for the land.

It takes us about half an hour to get to the edge of the town. I feel sorry for those who live right by the fence. Some of them have to walk an hour just to get to the town. It used to be longer, apparently. But the town's expanding, factory after factory popping up.

When we get to the bottleneck at the entrance to the square, we say our goodbyes. They wish me good luck, and I start to feel a bit nervous. What if I'm not lucky? I'm only thirteen, and I haven't taken that much tesserae, but what if I'm chosen? How long would I last?

I try not to think about it. I sign in and jog to my section. Kaley is already there, talking with Clary and Michaela. Listening to them, more like. She nods from time to time, bobbing her head in agreement with whatever they're saying.

Clary looks up and sees me. She waves her hand, a grim expression on her face. I wonder if there's a similar expression on mine. I wave back, and join them.

"Happy Hunger Games," Clary says, sounding depressed. "And the odds aren't in your favor, but that's just too bad for you."

"Amazing Capitol accent," I say, trying to laugh. "It only sounded like you've lived your entire life in District Eight."

Michaela laughs. "Well, she did have a point."

"What, that the odds aren't in our favor?" I raise my eyebrows. "How many entries to you have today? I have eighteen."

"Eighteen here, too." She shrugs. "But if we're reaped, we're dead."

"I have forty-five," Clary says grimly. "And I _will_ die if I'm reaped. And I have four times the chance of being reaped as I did last year."

"Cheer up," Michaela says. "It's not like - "

"District Eight!" a voice booms. "District Eight! Welcome, I repeat, welcome to the reaping for the one hundredth annual Hunger Games!"

.

Approximately ten minutes later, the escort comes up. It's Puara, of course. She picks the first girl. It's not one of us. It's Kaila Espin. She's a year older than us, and a year above us in school. I don't know her well, but I've seen her at school.

"How exciting!" Puara says. "Our first lady is _such_ a cool person, is she not? She's awesome, isn't she? Wow, wow, wow! I really hope our _second_ girl will _also_ be awesome! But who knows? Ah, I'm _sure_ she'll be great!"

Puara's heels click against the stage as she walks back to the bowl. She chooses another name.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the textile district, I give you your second _marvelous _girl..."

I nibble on my lip nervously. _Only eighteen entries, only eighteen_...

"Jadah Ja Rin!"

What.

I'm not poor. My name was only in there eighteen times. The Capitol has to rig the reaping. I know they do. How else would I end up in the Games?

But why would they rig the reaping? That would take the point away from the tesserae, if it didn't change your odds. So surely they don't rig the reaping...but then how was I chosen?

It's the Capitol's fault that I'm going in to die. It's not the rebels' fault. It's the Capitol. Those fancy, selfish Capitol people. Their lust for blood is why I'm most likely going to die.

I turn to look at Clary. Her face is pale. She was right. The odds aren't in my favor.

I swallow, square my shoulders, and begin my long journey to the stage. My long journey in search of life. My long journey along the path to death.

* * *

_District 8 Female C: Loom Baybreak's POV:_

Sand wakes me up. I know it's him, though I never did see his face. But really, who else would pour a glass of water on their sleeping sister? Sand is the only possibility. He's always been the troublemaker. I'm serious. He tried to sell me when I was a baby. I think he would've succeeded if Mother hadn't come in time.

Anyways, I wake up soaking wet. And by clothes are soaking. And my bed, as well. I sit up, gasping. Someone runs out of the room, and the door slams shut. Phaetana, Bobbin, and the twins are both still in bed, but Sand's bed is empty.

Hmm, I wonder who it could've been.

Hearing my yelp, Phaetana sits up. She looks over, and is clearly surprised to see me drenched.

"What happened?" She slips out of bed and comes over. "Did you take a dip in the river?"

I laugh, but it comes out choked. "Not exactly. I wouldn't travel all the way to the west boundary to swim before dawn. It would be more accurate to say that _someone_ poured a glass of water on my head." I glance contemptuously back at the door. "_Sand_."

She shakes her head. "How many times do I need to tell him that his pranks aren't funny?"

"Some of them are," Lupus, the older of the nine-year-old twins, says. "Like that time he dyed Phaetana's hair purple? Man, that was awesome. I dunno where he got the dye, though. And you got sooo mad at him. Remember?"

"I remember." Phaetana rolls her eyes.

"Well, you did look pretty funny with your hair all purple," I tell her. "Not that bad, actually."

"Thanks," she says. "At least he didn't try to sell _me_."

"Dude, I think that was a better prank," Bobbin says, sitting up. He's twelve, two years younger than I am, and Sand is his idol. He's mischievous, and a prankster in the making.

"Selling Loom?" Lupus laughs. "Definitely. It's hard to beat that, even if he was only five at the time."

"Maybe he could have died her hair purple, and _then_ sold her," Gin says. He's nine, Lupus's twin. "Maybe that would've made her more appealing. And she would've been sold before Mom got there."

"Gin!" Phaetana throws her pillow at him. "We're lucky that she got there in time. She says a couple was already there, and they were holding her, and about to take her."

"They were." Sand pokes his head inside of the room. "And they gave me quite a good deal for her. Man, we would've been rich. And they were pretty wealthy, too. Sector A, I think. Maybe we could've moved there. But Mom came, so we're stuck in B."

"Things aren't _that_ bad here," I point out. "It's actually quite nice here."

I grimace at my own words, and he laughs. "But if he had succeeded, we'd be in A, probably. Or even C. They're a bit more wealthy that here."

"Oh, so you wish she'd been sold?" Phaetana grabs my pillow, and hurls it at him. He dodges, and it hits the wall.

Sand sticks his tongue out at her. "Missed me."

She rolls her eyes. "You're so mean, Sand."

He gives her an innocent look. "Me? Mean?"

"You tried to sell your sister, and you threw water on her. Not very friendly."

Sand widens his eyes, continuing to feign innocence. "Me? Throw water on her?"

"We all know it was you, Sand." She gives him a disapproving look.

"You poured _water_ on her!" It's Bobbin, sounding very excited about the prospect of dumping a glass of cold liquid on one's sister.

Sand just winks and says, "Hey, come in for breakfast. Yummy yummy District Eight Standard."

Lupus groans. "Again?"

"Be happy we _have_ breakfast," Phaetana reminds him, still glaring at Sand. "Some of the Sector E's don't."

"Scavengers," Bobbin explains, grinning at her.

"They are _not_ Scavengers!" Phaetana punches him in the arm. "It's rude to call them that."

Bobbin shrugs. "It means the same thing as _Sector E_, doesn't it?"_  
_

"No. _Sector E_ refers to a place, and the people who live there. _Scavenger_is a rude adjective that you should never use."

"Even if they're _are_ Scavengers?" Gin asks, a small smile playing out across his lips.

Phaetana shakes her head, exasperated, and leaves the room.

"Hey, let's get some breakfast," Lupus suggests. "I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," Bobbin says. "What are you, a Scavenger?" He sticks his tongue out at the door. "Scavenger scavenger scavenger scavenger scavenger - "

"Let's go," Gin interrupts.

We leave the bedroom and walk to the kitchen. Sand, Mother, and Father are all already there, eating Standard. Four more bowls are out, filled with a small portion. My stomach grumbles, and I walk over to my seat.

It takes me exactly twenty seconds to wolf down the entire serving.

Father raises his eyebrows. "Someone's hungry."

"Hey, I'm done too!" Lupus complains. "I'm hungrier than _she_ is."

"You can both be hungry." Father tries to smile. "I just hope you're not _too_ hungry, because we have to make this box last for another month. Maybe if we were in Sector A, or even C - "

"At least we're not Scavengers," Bobbin says. Her shoots Phaetana a grin, and hurries out of the room.

"Don't call them _Scavengers_."

Gin starts to say something, but Father interrupts, "Loom, did you finish the shirts?"

"The shirts?" I give him a blank look, and then remember. "Oh, yeah, I did. They're in the room. I'll get them."

Mother and Father run the clothing store in Sector B. They buy some of the clothes from the factories, and make some themselves. They have the six of us make some, too: Sand makes sweaters, Phaetana makes dresses, I make shirts, Bobbin makes pants, and the twins make socks. They'll divide the responsibility of making other clothes.

I bring Father my armful of twenty shirts. A few of them are obviously rags sewn together, but I was able to match pieces of the same color for most. One or two even look like they could belong in the Sector A store.

Father accepts the shirts, and tells me to go get ready. I've only taken a few steps when Mother calls me back.

She stands up and says, "Come on to my room, Loom. I have something to give you."

I follow her into the hallway and into the other bedroom. She goes into her closet, and pulls something out. It's a pale blue dress. It's been patched together, and I can see all the seams, and I know she made it by hand.

"For you." She holds it out to me, and I take it. "I made it for the reaping. Good luck, let's say." She forces a smile. "Don't get reaped. Please, Loom."

"Mom, my name's only in there twenty times," I tell her. "The bowl will have thousands and thousands of entries. The odds are in my favor. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

I give her a bright smile, and remember to say, "Thanks for the dress."

She tries to say something, but her voice catches, and she ends up just nodding.

I leave the room and go to the door, where we always assemble before heading out. Sand and Bobbin are already there, talking about pranks they've pulled on rich sector people. Bobbin insists he's done tricks that I know he wouldn't be able to do. Sand plays along, with all his _wow_s and _amazing, I ought to try that_s.

Sand talks about his own pranks, too. I hope he's lying about some of them, but I doubt he is.

Five minutes later, the others arrive at the door. We leave the house, and Gin promptly tumbles down the single wooden step.

Bobbin stands where the younger boy was before, an innocent look on his face. Mother turns to chatise him, and Phaetana hurries over to Gin.

"Dude, that failed," Sand laughs. "They knew it was you. Why'd you take his place?"

"Well, he succeeded," I say. "In pushing Gin, I mean."

"Yeah, don't complain," Lupus agrees.

Phaetana helps Gin up, and we walk down the street. For once, Bobbin is quiet. Even Sand is uncharacteristically silent. Everyone is thinking about the reaping.

"I wonder what'll happen if I'm reaped," Sand says thoughtfully. "I might be. I'm eighteen, so I have quite a few entries."

"Only fourteen," I remind him.

"No, twenty-eight," he corrects. "Remember, I took the tesserae."

"Still," I insist. "Twenty-eight names in that huge bowl isn't that many."

"But four boys are gonna be reaped," he reminds me.

"Well - "

"There's no point in being optimistic," he says sharply. I stare at him. He's never seemed to be worried about the reaping before. "The odds aren't in my favor. If I'm reaped, I don't know how long I'll last. I'm eighteen, but what about the Careers? They've trained all their lives - "

"You won't be reaped." Phaetana voices my thoughts. "Don't worry."

"I should worry," Sand mutters.

"It's your last year," I say. "Next year you won't have any chance."

"Still, I wish I was one of those five-year-olds," he says. "Only one entry...must be nice, hmm?"

"Some of them probably have as many entries as you do," Bobbin says. "The Scavengers, I mean."

For once, Phaetana doesn't react.

"You'll all be fine," Father says quietly.

We get to the line, and Mother and Father go to join the other spectators. The six of us stand, nervous and apprehensive. The line is quiet, save for a few mutters here and there.

I scan the filling square for someone I know. I see my friends from school - most of the kids there are my friends - settling into the sections in the middle of the square.

Ten minutes later, I join them. I push the reaping out of my mind as best I can, and chat with the few who can still talk until the reaping begins.

.

The first girl is Kaila Espin. I know her from school. She's in my year. She's a friend of mine. Not one of my super-close friends, but I'm friends with most people in the school. I'm shocked when she's reaped. She probably had the same amount of entries as I have. And if she was reaped, why couldn't I be reaped?

I've seen the second girl before. She's a year younger than I am, though, so I don't know her as well. She probably had fewer entries than I have...her odds were better than mine.

"Isn't this great?" Puara booms. "Great, right? Definitely. I mean, it's great, isn't it? Everything's moving smoothly, and our first two ladies are _quite_ awesome. I'm sure our third lady will be, too..."

She walks over to the girl's ball and selects a third name. The square is deathly silent, and even from here I can hear the click of her heels on the stage as she returns to the microphone.

I fiddle with my hands, shifting my weight from foot to foot. _Come on, Puara, don't drag this out..._

She unfolds the name, and says, loudly and clearly, "Our Female C is Loom Baybreak!"

I freeze. My jaw lowers slightly, and then locks in place. I clench my fists. Twenty entries. Twenty out of thousands upon thousands. I see myself dying - blood spurting from my body, being crushed my rocks. Gory scenes from past Hunger Games flash through my mind, but my body has replaced the dying tribute's.

Me. I'm going into the Hunger Games.

Slowly, I walk to the stage. I glance at Kaila, and the other girl. I grasp Puara's hand, and move it up, and then down.

* * *

_District 8 Female D: Thimble Ake's POV:_

I wake up early in the morning. A single glance out the window tells me it's about four in the morning. I'm huddled on the hard floor in a dark room. It's not mine, and for a moment I panic. I scoot into the corner and survey my surroundings.

And then I remember: I'm in Kaila's house. In Sector D. I'm from E, the poorest sector. My father got a job a few years ago, and left us to live in D. Mother and I still live in E. Mother doesn't care much about me. She's selfish, and tries to move into a richer sector. I bet I'm slowing her down.

I'd probably be dead by now if it wasn't for Kaila. She was the one to give me medication when I got sick during the epidemic a few years ago. She's the one who lets me sleep here every so often. She's like the mother I never had.

Kaila sleeps on a small mattress to my right. There's another mattress next to her, where her younger sisters sleep. A few other kids, also from Sector E, lie in various places around the room. They are all fast asleep.

I stand up and walk to the window. Eight years of practice have made me light on my feet, and absolutely silent when I walk, even on the creaky wood.

I undo the latch on the window, and open the window, careful not to make a sound. The cool air hits me in the face, and pierces my thin clothing. I shiver, but don't back away. I never stay in one place the entire night, and this is the safest way out. The Night Watch will probably be roaming the streets by the front door.

The window is small, and a few feet off of the ground. I'm just over four feet tall, and very skinny, so I can make it. Getting up to the window is harder, but I do it every time I sleep here, so it only takes me a few seconds to get outside.

When I'm out, I gently close the window behind me. The latch doesn't fully close, which might be bad if people decide to trace me. It's happened before. It's usually because I'm a thief. I steal to live. I'll steal from anyone I can, except for Kaila. I can't steal from her. I can't, not after I owe her my life.

I may not be the most honorable person, but I don't work that way.

I slip through the narrow, dark alleyways. Whenever I see a Night Patrol person, I flatten up against the side of a building, or crouch in the darkness. They never see me. I blend in, with my dark clothes and hair. I match the colorless hue of District Eight.

I know what'll happen if they catch me. If you're a rich person from A, you'll get let off easy. They'll give you a warning, probably, and maybe one day in a jail cell in the Justice Building. The consequences will be a bit harsher if you're from B, C, or D.

But if you're from E, you have to watch out. They don't care how old you are. Once, a few years ago, a Sector E kid was caught out after curfew. He was eight at the time. My age now. They gave him a public whipping, and took him away. A week or so later, they sent back his body. It was bloody and mangled.

I don't want that to happen to me. I'm careful. I'm almost never spotted, and the few times they've seen me, either they've thought they're imagining me, or they haven't been able to catch me.

Soon, I cross the border into Sector E. The houses are even shabbier here. They're mostly burned out, abandoned shells of houses where families still dwell. My mother and I spend most of our nights in one of the collapsed houses by the fence. Before Father left, we lived closer to D, but we were pushed out.

It takes me a few minutes to get to the house. When I arrive, I know not to try the door. It's been jammed for years, and the Night Watchers might see me. Instead, I use my usual entrance - through the jagged slabs of cement that used to be the side wall.

I slip inside and go to the main room. There's another family that sleeps upstairs, and we never see them. It's an elderly couple. They're old - maybe even fifty years. They'll be dead soon, and then someone else will move in.

I notice the stench as soon as I get inside. It's been penetrating the walls for days now, and I know what it is. I've smelled it many times before, in other places. I expect it means they're already dead, the couple upstairs. Someday I'll move their bodies out.

I walk to the main room. Mother's sprawled out on the dirty floor. Her greasy dark hair that matches mine is pulled up in a messy bun, as if she put it up last night and forgot to take it out. She's fast asleep, but I doubt she'll be for long. She always seems to wake up when I arrive.

I lift the broken floorboard that hides most of our belongings. There's no food, as usual. If there was any, Mother would've eaten it already. But there are a few supplies, and a few extra pairs of clothes, one of which is an old, dirty, worn grey dress.

I change into it, and run my fingers through my dark hair. We used to have a comb, but I traded it for bread a few years ago. It's about five in the morning now. I have time, so I take my time braiding my hair. I fasten it with my black cord, and flip it over my shoulder.

"Going through my stuff, are you?" Mother says sharply, sitting up. "Get out. That's mine."

"It's mine," I correct. "It's my dress, and that's all I took."

"You ate all the food, too, didn't you?" she accuses.

"I had a small slice of bread last night," I admit. "But nothing more, I swear."

"_You_ ate the bread!" she gasps. "I knew it! You thief!"

"I steal to survive," I say plainly. "And it was my bread, technically. I made it from the tesserae, remember? I got to take tesserae this year. Twenty entries. Kaila didn't want me to, but I did it so I could get the bread."

"Yes, and it's mine!" she insists. "You owe me so much, Thimble. It's mine."

"Oh, I owe you?" I raise my eyebrows. "Not much. You haven't exactly helped me much the last few years - "

"I gave birth to you, didn't I?" Mother demands. "I didn't want to, but I was pregnant, and there was nothing I could do. So I let you live! And when yo were born, do you think I didn't know the trouble you'd bring? I'd now have to care for two people instead of one. But I let you live. And I fed you until you could feed yourself. And though I regret it now - what have you brought _me_? - I don't leave you. I don't make you leave this house. You owe me so much, you ungrateful child."

Rage boils inside me. "Mother, I give you some of what I steal, don't I? And I took tesserae to get grain for the two of us. And I've been leaving you along for the last few years, and you haven't done anything for me other than not kill me."

"You wish I killed you?" Mother says. "Well, so do I. How about you go volunteer today? Leave me. And we'll both be happy. You'll die, and I'll only have to care for one person."

I like to think of myself as independent, and I like to think that I don't care what my mother thinks of me, but I'll admit that tears came to my eyes when she said this.

"Mother," I say, "I can't volunteer. I've spent my life trying to live, haven't I?"

"I hope you're reaped," she says bitterly. "You can't use any weapon. You're weak. You'll die. You'll die, and _finally _I'll be free of you."

I straighten up and stare at her. She glares right back. We're both silent for several seconds. Her gaze sears into my eyes, my face, my soul. Tears cloud my vision, and I burst out of the house, and right back onto the street.

There's still a few minutes left before curfew is lifted, and roaming the streets is legal. I skirt around the houses, sticking to the dark. This is the most dangerous time to be out on the streets - it's when the new shift of Peacekeepers arrive, awake and alert, and common people aren't allowed on the streets, and it's too light to hide well.

I stay in a dark corner of a building until the town clock strikes six, and the curfew is lifted. I step out onto the street, and warily walk to the square. I don't like being out in the open, but Peacekeepers get suspicious if you look like you're trying to hide.

I'm one of the first to sign in. I give the Capitol man my hand, and he takes my blood. His scanner reads it. _Ake, Thimble. 8/YO_. I walk past him, and go to my section, near the back of the square. From there, I watch the lines as they grow longer. A while later, Mother signs in. A few minutes after that, I see Kaila.

I stand alone in my section. I don't have any friends. Allies are a weakness, usually. Kaila's the only person I consider an ally.

.

Puara takes the stage. She introduces herself, and reads the first name. It's not me, and I join in the collective sigh of relief. But then the name sinks in.

It's Kaila.

Kaila, my only friend, the person without whom I would be dead, reaped. I consider volunteering, but I instantly press down the urge. She stands a better chance than I do, and volunteering equals suicide. Also, it's what Mother wants.

I'm completely helpless, watching Kaila ascend the steps to the stage, breathing hard, fear in her eyes. I'm good at reading expressions. I know she thinks she doesn't stand a chance. And I know she's probably right.

The next two girls I don't know. It's a thirteen-year-old and another fourteen-year-old. The thirteen-year-old looks almost brave, but the fourteen-year-old looks shell-shocked.

"Our Female D will be next!" Puara says happily. "I wonder who it'll be. Don't you? I said, don't you? Come on, District Eight! You have no spirit! Well, fine."

She takes her time selecting a name. She pulls it from the very bottom of the bowl. She returns to the mic, and waves it around. It falls open.

"On this paper is the name of our Female D," she says gleefully. "I wonder who it'll be..."

She squints at the slip. "Thimble Ake! Would Thimble Ake please come to the stage?"

My eyes widen. Mother, she...she... She predicted this, right? Or was it just hope? Whatever it was, she got lucky. Cold fury battles with plain fear, and I try unsuccessfully to contain both.

Then, I wonder what I'm leaving behind. My mother. That's all. Kaila's coming with me, isn;t she? All I'm leaving is Mother, who can't stand me. I'll most likely die in a few weeks, but there'll be nothing to miss.

I take a deep breath, and walk to the stage.

* * *

_District 8 Male A: Dylan Ashcroft's POV:_

Ally wakes me up. I'm in the middle of a nightmare in which we're both reaped, though she's too young, when I hear a baby's laugh and the sound of hands clapping. They penetrate my dream, and drowsily, I wake up.

She's sitting on my stomach. She's plopped down there, bouncing, pushing my breath out every time. I grimace and she laughs, clapping her hands some more.

"Ally, get off," I tell her. "It hurts."

My two-year-old sister doesn't obey. She bounces even harder. I wonder if she understood what I said. Unlike many kids her age, she can't talk yet. Mother thinks something is wrong. Ally just laughs and claps her hands.

"Ally," I groan. I roll onto my stomach, and she falls off, shrieking and laughing. She's so energetic that I can't help but join in, laughing. "Way to wake me up. It's six in the morning!"

She giggles and pokes me in the shoulder.

"Is that a sorry?" She doesn't respond, of course, so I continue. "Because I was sleeping, and you woke me up. I think I deserve an apology, hmm? _Sorry, Dylan_. That's all you hafta say. Come on, Ally, you have to say _something_."

My tone of voice must've been sharper than usual, because Ally looks slightly hurt, and recoils.

"Sorry," I say. "I'm just nervous. Today's the reaping. I'm seven, so my name's in the ball three times. At least we're in Sector A, even if we're the poorest people in the sector. Otherwise, I might have nine, twelve, fifteen entries. Not fun."

Ally frowns at me, and sticks her tongue out. I'm not nearly as cheerful as I usually am, because of the reaping, so I feel obligated to explain.

"See, Ally, four girls and four boys aged five to eighteen are gonna be chosen today. And they're gonna have to fight to the death. Only one person survives. And there's gonna be ninety-six tributes altogether, eight from each district. And if I'm reaped, I'm probably gonna die. See why I'm nervous?"

She gives me a huge smile, and I manage to return it. I like smiling, but I'm surprised I could do it today. The day of the reaping. The day of my possible death. I mean, the day where I might learn I'm going to die.

"You're lucky, Ally," I say softly. "You're only two. You're safe. But I'm seven, Ally. My name's in the bowl three times. I might be reaped. I - I'm scared, Ally."

My sister waddles over to me like a large baby, and wraps her thin arms around my waist, as if she understood what I said. I try to smile, because they say that smiling actually makes you happier. Maybe that's why I'm usually so happy.

But today, it doesn't seem to have any effect. I'm shivering, despite the warmth of my sister. And I'm scared. For the first time in my life, true dread settles in my heart.

What if I'm reaped? I don't want to die.

Ally pulls free and goes over to the closet, as she does every morning. She pulls the doors open, and looks expectantly at me.

I stand up and follow her. I go through her side of the closet, murmuring, "What're you going to wear today, huh, Ally?"

She doesn't respond, so I choose for her. I pull out her only dress. It's faded blue, and rather small on her. I help her into it, and she runs out of the room, in search of breakfast, probably.

I push Ally's clothes to the side and look for something to wear. I pull out a t-shirt and black jeans. There's no reason to dress up, as far as I'm concerned. I don't think I've ever worn "proper" clothing in my life.

I change, and look into the foggy mirror on the wall. I wipe it off, and look at my reflection.

The first thing you notice when you look at me is probably my height. I'm four foot six, shorter than most of the boys my age. I consider myself fun-sized. My hair is dark and shaggy, because though we have the money, I haven't gotten it cut in a while, and Mom hasn't even attacked it with the scissors for a while.

I grin, and skip out of the room.

Mother is serving Ally District Eight Standard. Ally holds a spoon in one hand, and she bangs it against the bowl. Mother's bowl is already full. A third bowl is in front of one of the empty seats. Mine.

I plop down in my seat, grab a spoon, and dig into the cereal. It's not particularly good, but it's food, and that's good enough for me. Here in Eight, we learn to eat whatever we can get our hands on. Even in Sector C, the second richest sector.

"Where's Father?" I ask suddenly.

Mother grins at me. "He's out," she says simply. "Hun...uh, buying meat." A nervous expression flits over her face briefly, but it's gone before I can confirm it. "He already ate breakfast. He said he'd meet us at the square. Or after the reaping, if he can't catch us before."

"Father's never home," I complain. "He's always buying meat?"

Mother laughs. "No, not _always_. He sometimes is at work, or buying other things. But right now, he's buying meat."

"Okay." I shrug, and go back to my cereal. I'm used to Father's absence. He used to be around a lot more, when I was young, before Ally was born. But anyways, Mother always seems calmer when he's not around. I think they fight a lot, or something like that. Those were the only times I've ever seen Mother not happy.

Ally finishes her cereal, and claps her hands energetically, shifting her gaze between Mother and the cereal box.

"You want more?" Mother asks in the special voice she reserves for Ally. "You want more, hmm? How much? You tell me when to stop, okay?"

She pours the cereal, bit by bit. Of course, Ally never voices the word to stop, so Mother decides herself. She closes the box and puts it down.

"You should be grateful we're in Sector C," she tells us. "If we were in D or E, or maybe even B, I wouldn't be able to give you seconds."

"Why not?" I ask. "They're normal people, like us. They should get lots of cereal, too."

"They can't afford to get new boxes as often as we do," she explains. "They're too poor."

"Quinn's from D," I say. "He says he eats cereal. And he should be able to eat cereal. He's my best friend!"

"The point is, be happy you have enough cereal, and you're not starving." Mother smiles at me. "Speaking of cereal, d'you want some more?"

"Yeah!" I thrust my bowl forward, and she fills it up. I smile, looking down at the food. I reach for my spoon, but it's not where I left it. "Wait - where'd my spoon go?"

I look around, and find it immediately. It's in Ally's other hand. She's banging the spoons together, chanting something in her baby lingo. I shake my head is mock disapproval.

"No stealing spoons, Ally. Next time you want another spoon, take Mother's."

"Or don't take one at all," Mother offers. "I'm fine with keeping mine. Or I can get you an extra one from the cabinet, if you'd like."

She stands up to get Ally another spoon, and I grab mine back. "Bad Ally. Bad spoon thief."

She makes an annoyed sound and reaches out for my spoon. I look at the expression on her face, a blend of confusion and exasperation, and can't help but laugh.

"Hey, Mother's getting you a _different_ spoon, okay? You get two spoons, and I get to keep mine. Everyone's happy."

Ally turns around and grabs the spoon out of Mother's hand. She bashes it against her spoon (or it might have been my spoon, and I took Ally's...), yelling at the top of her lungs.

I automatically grasp at my ears. "Not so loud," I hiss. "You'll wake the people in Thirteen. And they're all dead! That's how loud you are!"

I grab her wrist, and she stops shrieking. The spoon clatters to the floor, and tears bubble up in her eyes.

I pick up the spoon and return it to her. "Sorry," I murmur. "Just a bit nervous here."

Mother leans against the table and gives me a concerned look. "Are you okay, Dylan?"

"I'm okay," I mutter. "Just worried about the reaping."

"Dylan, you only have three entries. You'll be fine."

"I know it." I flash her a bright smile. "I'll be back to normal tomorrow, assuming I'm not picked today..."

"Which you won't be," she reminds me.

"Which I won't be," I agree. "But Quinn will probably kill me if I don't meet him at the square fifteen minuted before the reaping, and that's my biggest worry right now."

Mother laughs. "He wouldn't _kill_ you."

"No, but he's eight, and a lot bigger than I am. And he won't be very happy."

"Well, then you'd better get going." Mother gives me a tired smile. "See you at the reaping. May the odds be ever in your favor."

"Thanks."

Twenty minutes mater, I'm at the square. Mother and Ally are probably walking now. There are two lines - one for the eligible children, and one for the spectators. I go to the back of the former line.

I'm still relatively early, so the line isn't that long. It only takes me five minutes to get to the front.

There's a Capitol man there. He holds a black device. He's wearing gloves. There's a sheet of red finger prints in front of him.

"Hello," I say brightly. "How are you?"

He holds out his hand. I shake it, and he gives me an exasperated look.

"Your _finger_."

"My finger?" I frown at him, and then remember. "Oh, yeah! You're the guy who takes the blood right? But I don't really like blood, you know. But I guess I have to, right?"

"Just give me your finger."

I oblige, and he pierces it with the needle on the device. There's a beep, and _Ashcroft, Dylan. 7/YO_ appears on the screen. The man presses my finger down on his ledger, leaving a bloody finger print. He ushers me away, and I go to find Quinn.

He stands with a bunch of the other boys from school, near the back of the square. When he sees me, he pushes through a clump of them and comes over to me.

"Happy Hunger Games, Dylan," he says darkly.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," I reply.

"They're not." He brushes his hair out of his eyes. "I have twenty entries, and I'm only eight. The odds aren't in my favor. But they're probably in your favor, huh?"

"I have three entries," I reply uncertainly.

"Yup, they're in your favor." He manages to smile. "Lucky you. In Sector D, we're not as lucky. Must be nice to be rich, in C."

"A's the rich sector," I correct.

"C's the second richest," he says. "You're lucky."

"I know," I say. "But D isn't so bad."

"You want to switch?" he asks. It sounds like a halfhearted challenge. "I'd be happy to."

"Not really."

Quinn laughs. "Good choice."

"But you can move into C, and live with us," I suggest.

"Trust me, I'd love to."

"You can!" I encourage.

"I wish I could." He turns to the stage. "But life doesn't work like that. Maybe you'd realize if you lived in D. Or if you were a year older. Speaking of age, I have to go. My section's in front of yours. You stay here."

"Good luck," I say.

"You too."

.

I don't recognize the first girl. But I recognize her name. She's Kaila Espin, the kid from Sector D who they say helps out the Scavengers from E. It's a good goal, I think, helping out others. But Quinn insists that she's stupid for caring more about others.

I don't know the second girl, either. She seems brave, and may go farther than Kaila. Or maybe it's just a show. To get support, probably. I dunno. I've never seen her before.

I think I've seen the third girl somewhere before, around school. But really, she's just another girl going to die in the Hunger Games. I feel a rush of sympathy. I wish I could smile at her, and tell her she'll win. But it'd probably not be true, even if it did comfort her. If it did.

The fourth girl is Quinn's age - eight. She's small and skinny, and her wispy dark hair has streaks of grey from malnutrition. She's probably from Sector E. I don't recognize her, but I feel sorry for her. Wonder how much tesserae she took. She should've been able to get food without tesserae.

Then, Puara moves on to the boys.

"We have now gotten our lovely four ladies!" she booms. "We'll now be selecting our four gentlemen! I wonder who will arise from this selection... The strongest? The smartest? The handsomest? Ooh, is that even a word?" She giggles. "I've no idea!"

She teeters over to the bowl and picks a name. She returns to the microphone and announces, "Our Male A is...drumroll..."

Not me. Don't say Dylan Ashcroft. Please don't. And don't say Quinn Kelintio, either. Not Dylan Ashcroft...

"Our Male A...will be...Dylan Ashcroft!"

Oh. No.

My eyes widen, and I stare up at Puara in horror. Me? I had three entries. The odds were in my favor. Quinn said it, Mother said it...they were in my favor.

Step by step, I approach the stage. Four Peacekeepers fall out of line and escort me. My breaths come short and fast, and dread settles in my gut like a ton of lead.

I stand on the stage, and shake Puara's hand. I can't muster a smile, not even a pathetic one. _Please, someone volunteer..._

As if answering my plea, someone steps out of one of the sections in the front. It's a tall and muscular teenager.

"I - "

"Alrighty!" Puara drowns out his next words, and I shoot her a look of loathing. For the first time in my life, I hate someone. I hate her for stopping someone who would've volunteered, and saved me.

A Peacekeeper pushes the teenager back into his section.

"We have our Male A," Puara announces. "Awesome! And as we have no volunteers, we'll be moving onto our Male B, 'kay?"

I stare at the teenager. He gives the Peacekeeper an annoyed look, and says something I can't hear. Something like _I'll still volunteer_. But not for me. Not for me.

No, not for me. I'm going into the Hunger Games.

* * *

_District 8 Male B: Cade Spyloft's POV:_

All the Sector E Scavengers are scared to death of me. So are many of the D kids. Heck, nearly all the kids in the district are terrified of me, I'd bet. So maybe I leave the C kids alone, as well as my fellow A kids. For the most part, that is. But the others, they're scared of me. And for a good reason.

The little boy I meet on the street at around the time curfew is lifted is no exception.

He can't be older than five or six. He has light hair with grey streaks from malnutrition, and hazel eyes that fill with fear when he turns the corner and sees me. He squares his shoulders and bares his teeth in a pathetic attempt to appear strong.

He...well, he fails.

I laugh. "Well, well," I say icily. "An ickle baby Scavenger roaming the streets before curfew's lifted. Oh, no, he's so _brave_! I could _never_ do such a _daring_ thing as go outside before curfew's lifted. I might run away now, I'm so terrified of this little runt!"

I toss my head back and laugh. It's quiet enough to not draw the attention of any Night Watchers, but strong enough to freak the kid out.

Still, he clenches his fists and mimes a wrestler's stance. "You - you'd better w-watch out, C-Cade Spyloft. I - I'm stronger than I l-look."

I laugh again. "Sure you are, Sector E baby." I shove him. "You poor little Scavenger. How much tesserae did you take, huh? One hundred? Lame, Scavenger. Lame."

"I have t-twenty-two." His voice shakes, but is strong. "N-not one hundred."

"T-twenty-two," I say, mimicking his stutter. "Pathetic, Scavenger. I didn't take any tesserae, because I didn't need to. I'm not _poor_ and _pathetic_. I'm not a Scavenger."

"You're a richie."

"A richie?" I laughs so hard I almost choke. "Is that what you pathetic little beings call us? Well, then, yes, I'm a _richie_. You're a baby Scavenger. Sector E versus Sector A, huh? Well then, fight me, little kid. Let's see how long you last."

His eyes widen in fear, but he pretends to recover. "I - I'd beat you. You - you don't want to get hurt, do you?"

"_You're _the one who has to worry about that," I correct. "Not me. But if you're so confident that you'll win, then fight me."

"I hope you're reaped today!" he cries.

"Oh, I'm going to volunteer." I give him a crooked smile. "And I'm going to win. And I hope _you're_ reaped today, so I can kill you in the Games. And if you aren't, I'm going to kill you when I get back."

"Y-you won't g-get b-back," he insists. "I know you. You don't have it in you. You - you'll d-die."

"And I know you, Jason Asmiron," I reply softly. "You're in Sector E, and your old man won't miss you if you die, will he. That is, if he's still alive..."

"If y-you kill m-me, K-Kaila'll kill you!" Jason insists, his voice trembling.

"Kaila Espin," I muse. "Sector D brat. Idiot who took all you Scavengers under her wing, correct? You're one of her pets, hmm? Well, if she does try to kill me, which she might, being the idiot that she is, I'll kill her. You know that, don't you, you little pest."

"Just go away!" Jason cries. "I never did anything to you, did I? You'e mean!"

I grin. "Oh, yes, I'm mean."

I bring back my arm and ram my fist into his gut as hard as I can. He screams in pain, so loudly that surely every Night Watcher in the district heard him. But they won't catch me, and they'll have no proof it was me, no matter what he says.

The clock strikes six, and the curfew is lifted. I shove Jason to the ground and walk away. I'm sick of this poor sector, and its collapsing buildings. I return to A, and go back inside my house.

Mother and Father are eating breakfast. It's pancakes, with sugar on top.

"Hey, Cade, where you been?" Father asks. "Training, I hope."

"If he's going to volunteer today, he'd better have been training," Mother says.

"I was training," I agree. "Worked in the basement with my swords, and then went outside. Jumped some Scavenger kid."

"D'you beat him up good?" Father looks up, intrigued.

"Not as good as I could've if I had my swords," I answer. "He lived, if that's what you mean. Just beat him up a bit."

"Small steps are still steps," Mother says. "Good thing you didn't pull your sword on him. You can't exactly volunteer if you're in a jail cell in the Justice Building, can you?"

"They'd never have caught me," I say. "They wouldn't have cared if he died, anyways. Why would they? He's just a dirty little Scavenger."

Mother points her knife at me. "You, sir, have a point."

"Obviously."

"Then again, you're late for breakfast."

"Oh, shut up." I lodge my knife into the table. "You know training's far more important than breakfast."

"Still, you must eat breakfast the morning of the Games," she says. "You'd better Cade. No excuses. This is your last year living with us, and I'm going to make this clear."

"This won't be his last year living with us," Father says. "He's going to win, and we're all going to live in Victor's Village."

"Oh, yes!" Mother agrees. "Definitely. But maybe we'll have to move out if he gets married."

"I won't ever get married," I say. "Ever. Love makes you weak. Remember Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark? They both died because they were in love. If one of them had just killed the other in the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, they would've lived. But no, they both won, so they both died in the Quell. I am never getting married."

"True enough," Father admits. "Most boys have crushes before your age, Cade, but you say you haven't had any."

"You think I'm lying?" I challenge.

"No, I don't." He smiles. "I think you're telling the truth, and it'll make you strong in life. Stronger."

"Even stronger," Mother echoes.

"My brother would've won the Games," Father murmurs. "But he wasn't strong enough. You will be stronger, Cade, I hope. You will win, will you not?"

"Of course I'll win," I say, exasperated. "Also your brother never trained. Maybe he was stronger than most people in the district, but he lost becasue he never trained. I've trained. I'm going to volunteer. I'm stronger than he was. Don't doubt me, Father."

"Doubt you?" He looks surprised. "Never would I doubt you, Cade. I have brought you up well because you are my only hope here. You will bring honor back to the Spyloft family. The honor the Creon rid us off when he lost the seventy-seventh Hunger Games. But you will bring it back, Cade, multiplied by twenty. This year is a Quarter Quell. All our hopes are resting on you, Cade."

"They are," Mother agrees. "I knew Creon. You're better than he was."

"Win." Father's word is spoken so loudly, so powerfully, that I snap to attention.

"Aye, Father. I will win." I give him a crooked grin.

"Get ready," Mother chirps. "A victor-to-be can never be late! Get dressed, Cade! And remember to brush your teeth! And take a breath mint. And for God's sake, Cade, brush your hair!"

I nod and go to my room. It's large, with a king-sized bed by the wall. A huge dresser is on the other side of the room. I open it and go through my clothes.

I pick out a black t-shirt and grey trousers. I quickly change into them. I leave my room and go to the front door, ready to put on my shoes and leave, but then Mother walks in and sees me.

"Cade! Your hair! And remember to brush your teeth! And then come to my room, and I'll give you a breath mint!"

"Lay off, Mother," I mutter.

I go back to my room and run a brush through my unruly dirty blond hair. Then, I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and do all the stuff Mother always yells at me to do. Blah, blah, blah. I'm eighteen years old, Mother. I don't need you hanging over me all the time.

I go back to the door and put on my leather boots. I put my hand on the doorknob and turn around.

"I'm leaving now!" I holler. "See you at the square!"

"Wait!"

I sigh and slouch as Mother hurries over, holding a box of breath mints.

"Take the whole box, Cade! A victor must have fresh breath! It can be your token!"

"I already have a token, Mother," I remind her.

"Really?" She frowns. "What is it?"

I bring my hand to my neck and finger my skull pendant. "This, remember? Father gave it to me when I started training. I tell you, it freaks out the kids." I grin.

"Well, take it until the make you let it go," she insists. "And make sure you use them all up!"

"Okay, okay," I grumble.

"Make sure you volunteer!" Father calls from the kitchen. "And remember - kill, kill, kill!"

I leave the house, slamming the door behind me. I walk down the street of Sector A. I throw the breath mints in the first garbage can I pass. I don't need them. Bad breath can be a bonus in a fight, and anyways, I don't like mint.

.

The first girl is Kaila Espin. Oh, _yes_. I can't stand that girl. I'll make sure I'm the one to kill her. And I'll have fun with it, too. And that'll show that Jason boy, even if I don't get to kill him personally.

I don't know the next two girls. They're both young teenagers, too.

The last girl is Thimble Ake, an eight-year-old Scavenger. I can't stand her. She's shown me up a few times, when I've tried to get her or something, and she's outrun me or hid somewhere where I couldn't find her. I'll have fun killing her, too. Oh, yes.

The escort calls up some Sector C boy who I don't know. I try to volunteer, but she doesn't let me. I tell the Peacekeeper I'l still going to volunteer, even if for someone else. Even a Scavenger. I _will_ volunteer.

The next boy is also from Sector A, though, it turns out. He's ten years old, and looks terrified. I've seen him around, though I don't know him well.

"I volunteer!"

This time, I yell it at the top of my lungs, so loudly that she can't ignore it. I race to the stage.

"What is _your_ name, volunteer?" Puara asks, an annoyed look on her face.

"Cade Spyloft," I answer. "I'm going to be District Eight's next victor, so you can call me Victor, too, if you want."

"How exciting," Puara says coldly. "How much we all love volunteers."

I give her a disgusted look. She doesn't like volunteers? She doesn't think I'll win? Well, I'll show her.

* * *

_District 8 Male C: Quentin Landsman's POV:_

I wake up early in the morning. I'm stressed about the reaping, and when I'm stressed, I tend to wake up early. I don't wake up any of the others. I couldn't wake up Eleanor, the eldest. We don't get along well, as she doesn't think I fit in with everyone else. She's right, and it doesn't exactly do wonders for our relationship.

I couldn't wake up Adena, either. She's twelve, one years older than I am. I'm told that siblings closer in age tend to get along better, but this really isn't the case. Adena's smart, much more clever than most people her age. I'm also intelligent, and she resents me because she thinks I'm competing against her. A threat. I don't think I am, but it's the reason we don't get along, either.

Mother's too strict, and she'd make me go back to bed, and submit myself once more to the nightmares. Father would tell me to get up, but do something manly. He'd tell me not to read, and to pretend I'm worth something. He'd probably take me outside to play ball with Dale.

Yes, Dale. My fourteen-year-old brother. I guess I could wake him up. We get along well, much better than I do with any of the others. But I doubt he'd appreciate my waking him up. If he's in a nightmare right now, he wouldn't appreciate my confirming it was real. That today is reaping day. And if he's in a peaceful slumber, he also wouldn't appreciate my jumpstarting reaping day.

No, I can't wake anyone up. I can't, I shouldn't. So I grab the book from my nightstand, and move the velvet curtain from the window to let in some light. I push all thoughts about the reaping and my life out of my mind, and focus instead on the world in this book.

Nearly all books in Panem are set in Panem. The Capitol is afraid of people getting ideas. Seeing a world of freedom, a world better than the Capitol. They're afraid of citizens _wanting_. Seeing how possible a land of the truly free is. The Capitol doesn't allow any other books to be published, but people in the districts still own old copies of forbidden books, worn by decades upon decades of use.

This book is set in North America. It's about a girl, eleven years of age like me, living in a place called Massachusetts. A _state_ called Massachusetts. In the country. She has so many freedoms, so many rights she takes for granted. It's set in the twenty-first century, right before World War Three. And then the war comes, rocking her world, killing many of her friends, and family. Years pass, and eventually the war comes to a close. Panem rises, a Capitol surrounded by thirteen districts.

That's as far as I've gotten.

Most other boys my age wouldn't read this book, solely because of the female narrator. But I'm different. I see boys my age as immature, and I don't like hanging out with them. Most of my friends are female, like June and Genevieve. I'm more...suitable with them, I guess. It makes me seem like a wimp to the other boys, but I'm not.

I read until I hear the town clock strike six. Curfew's down. Hurrah.

In the book, each hour is marked by church bells. Some tune. That is, until the bells are melted for ammunition in the war. But here, in District Eight, each hour, a single bell is rung. It's a deep pitch, loud and startling, and it apparently can be heard all the way from outside of the city.

I live in Sector A. It's very, very loud. I hear it every morning. It jerks me out of my sleep. But I'm already awake this morning, and it startles me into slamming my book shut.

That's another reason my dad scorns me - I'm startled easily. Not a _manly_ characteristic. Oh well, too bad. So I'm not manly.

Dale wakes up. "So loud," he murmurs.

"The bell?" I look up, distracted, still trying to find my page. "Uh huh. Church bells."

"_Church bells_?" Dale says, squinting blearily at me. "Where'd that come from?"

"Oh, sorry." I hold up my book sheepishly. "Just mentioned them in here. She's wondering if Panem's going to have church bells. But I doubt it, because they don't have them _here_. But if she doesn't go to District Eight, maybe - "

"Oh, you're reading that book again?" Dale shrugs. "I wouldn't know. I never read it. But I don't get the title. _The Journey of Rachel__?"_ He pronounces the name weirdly, like _Raw-chel_.

"_Rachel_," I correct. "Yeah. It's good, actually. It's about this girl - "

"Who's living in North America before and during and possibly after the war," Dale finishes. "Yeah, I know. You've told me before. I'm surprised you haven't finished reading it yet. Haven't you read just about every book in the district?"

"Probably not." I shrug. "And I just found this one the other day. Hidden away in the closet."

"Who would hide a book in the closet?" Dale wonders.

"Someone who doesn't want the Capitol to find it," I answer. "And the Capitol would _not_ want anyone reading this book. The people have very anti-Capitol views."

Dale jumps to his feet. "You mean this is a forbidden book?"

"You could call it that." I give him a sheepish look. "It's fine, Dale. They'll never - "

"If they catch you with that, they'll take the entire family in for questioning! They'll torture us. Just don't let anyone see you reading it. Not Eleanor, not Adena. Not even Mother or Father."

"Okay," I mumble.

Dale sighs and closes his eyes. He presses his fingers to his temples. "I'm sorry, Quentin. I'm just stressed. Today's the reaping."

"I know," I say. "My name's in the bowl seven times."

"I have ten entries," Dale says. "Count yourself lucky, little bro. The odds are in your favor. Some of the Scavengers are taking twenty, thirty entries worth of tesserae, and you only have seven entries."

I smile. "There are bonuses to living in Sector A."

"There are," Dale agrees. "Unfortunately, less than ten percent of District Eight lives here."

"Less competition?" I say halfheartedly.

"I guess." Dale forces a grin. "May the odds be in your favor even more than they already are. Come on, let's get something to eat."

We leave the bedroom and go to the kitchen. The girls are there, along with out parents.

"Use your _napkin_, Adena," Mother snaps. "Your milk's spilled. Do you not feel it on your chin? Wipe it up! I didn't buy these fancy napkins so they could live on the table and never be used."

"Cool off," Adena mutters, but she obliges. Then she turns around and sees us. "Oh, hurrah. Incoming, Quentin the idiotic genius."

"Idiotic genius?" I try not to feel hurt, and raise my eyebrows. "Isn't that an oxymoron?"

"Oh, and he has a _very_ complicated vocabulary," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "He speaks like an adult! With a brain the size of a pea!"

"Manners!" Mother snaps. "I agree that he isn't the most satisfying of sons, but I'd like it if you could at least get along!"

"Oh, I'm _sorry_, Mother," Adena gasps, wide-eyed. "I'd hate to not get along with my genius brother."

"At least she recognizes that he isn't the son he should be," Father says through a mouth of scrambled eggs. "Soft little bookworm."

Adena smiles for the first time in weeks, and says, "Exactly." She turns back to her plate and continues eating, looking back only to say, "Come on, Dale, join us."

We both sit down, and she glares at me. "Oh, so we have two Dales?"

"That would be awesome," Dale says. "Two mes? Twice the fun in the world!"

"No, because one would be Quentin, just renamed," Adena says scathingly.

"Cool off," I mumble. "I never did anything to you."

Adena searches for a witty response, but she settles for kicking me under the table.

I yelp, and Adena snickers. "Softie."

"Leave him alone," Dale says. Good old Dale, always sticking up for me. "As he said, he never did anything to _you_. You're just mad he's smarter than you."

Adena turns red. "He is _not_smarter than me!" she exclaims.

"Weak point, huh?" I can't resist grinning at her, despite the loathing in her eyes.

"At least she has a go in life," Father says. "Quentin, however..."

"Pathetic?" Adena offers. "Hopeless?"

"Exactly." Father shakes his head. "Watch this. Hey Dale, Quentin, let's go out and play some football before the reaping."

"Sure!" Dale jumps to his feet. "Quentin?"

I know he's setting me up, so he can humiliate me further. But I really hate football. What's the point of tackling each other just to get possession of some ball? And so I say, "No, thank you."

"See?" Adena says. "Pathetic little boy. He;d much rather play with his girlfriends, huh? Well, Father, _I'll_ play football with you guys, okay?"

"Sure." He grins. "Quentin, you're playing, too."

"I said I'd meet June and Genevieve at the square," I say apologetically.

"_Girlfriends_." Adena makes irritating little kissing noises. "Quentin and June, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

"We're not - " I try to protest, but she raises her voice.

"First comes love, then comes marriage - "

"Adena, we're not - " I try to cry, but she yells the last line out at the top of her lungs.

"_And then comes a baby in a baby carriage_!"

She buckles over, laughing and slapping her thigh. Eleanor joins in, and even Dale risks a chuckle.

"Or maybe Genevieve?" Eleanor offers.

"Sure," Adena says.

I storm out of the room before she can sing the song again. I didn't finish my breakfast, but the reaping has resurfaced in my mind, and I've lost my appetite.

What if I'm chosen? What if Puara, that rich, silly lady, calls my name? What will I do then? I may be smarter than most of the tributes. But I can't fight. I'm weak. I'd die. Maybe I'd survive the first few days, but then I'd die. My odds would be bad enough if I were old enough to be reaped, and only facing twenty-three others. But I'm only eleven, and I'll have ninety-five adversaries.

I wonder how long I'd last.

But I won't be chosen. I'm from Sector A. I took no tesserae. My odds are as good as they can be, at my age and district. In terms of getting reaped, that is. If I go into the arena, the odds will be all screwed up. For me, they'll plummet.

I'd better not be chosen.

I open the closet doors and search for something to wear. I decide on a pair of blue baggy jeans and a white t-shirt with a smiley face on it. I don't know. They were there.

Dale comes in soon after and goes through his own dresser. He pulls out a variety of outfits, asking for my opinion on each one. _Like this one, Quentin? No, the stripes don't go well with the dots; Mother won't like that. How about this one? Purple, seriously? You're harsh, Quentin...how about this? Ah, it's better than the others_.

Dale changes, and I leave the room. I go to the door, where the others are already leaving. Adena shoots me a glare before following Mother outside, where Eleanor and Father are waiting.

"Dale!" Adena calls. "You coming? The loser can't walk with us, but do you want to?"

"No thanks!" comes Dale's muffled voice. "And he's not a loser! If he was, I wouldn't walk with him. But unless he leaves with you guys, I'm going to walk with him."

"Suit yourself!" Adena says back. "You can always ditch him when he starts boring you to death."

"Doubt that'll happen!"

Adena grumbles something, shaking her head. She marches outside, slamming the door behind her. Great sister, right? I can tell she loves me.

A minute later, Dale comes to the door. "Don't listen to her," he tells me. "She doesn't mean anything she says. She's just jealous that you're nicer and nearly as smart as she is. Or maybe it's that you get to spend more time with me."

I manage to grin. "Ha ha," I say. "I'm sure that's the reason."

"Thank you." He bows, looking pleased. "Did you hear how disappointed she was when I said I'd rather walk with you? Be honored, Quentin Landsman."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah. Let's go."

"As you wish." He doffs an imaginary cap and holds the door open for me.

I go outside and shiver when the cold hits me. Maybe I should've brought a jacket. Oh, well. Dale's already closed the door. Well, then I'll freeze.

We walk down the street in tense silence. I can tell he's thinking about the reaping. I know I am. His eyes dart around nervously, and he's uncharacteristically quiet. I guess most people are on reaping day.

When we get to the square, we sign in, and Dale leads me to my section, which is near the middle of the square, a bit closer to the back.

"May the odds be ever in your favor, little brother," he says grimly.

"Yours too," I return.

He pulls me into a hug. "Don't get reaped." And then he leaves. I watch him go a few sections up, and settle in with the other fourteen-year-olds. Good luck, Dale. Let's hope we both get out of this alive.

"Quentin."

I start. I look around the section, trying to locate the voice. "Yeah?"

"Hello." A girl with dark brown hair and blue eyes, a few inches taller than me, comes up to me.

"Hi, Genevieve." I smile. "Where's June?"

She shrugs. "Late?"

"Not yet." I point to the town clock. "We still have a few minutes."

"Whatever. Maybe she'll be better off missing the reaping."

I stare at her. "Are you crazy? You miss the reaping, you get carted off to the Justice Building."

"Yeah, well." Genevieve shrugs. "She might be reaped. And if she is, it'd be better for her to not have been here at all. Not present at the reaping. She dies either way, right?"

"Not necessarily," I say uncertainly. "She's probably not going to be reaped. She's from Sector A, like you and me. She didn't take much tesserae, right? And if she _is_ reaped, by weird, weird odds...well, maybe she could win?"

"She couldn't win," Genevieve says forcefully. "Nor could you. Not even I could win."

"That's what lots of victors say they were told."

"And lots of those who died." Genevieve lets that comment hang before continuing. "The point is, odds aren't reliable. Think of all the twelve-year-olds who've been reaped in the past. Who've only had one entry. The odds were in their favor, but they were still reaped. And think of all the huge Career monsters who died. The odds were in their favor, but they still died, right?"

"Odds are odds..."

"Odds are odds, which are unreliable." Genevieve sighs. "The odds are in no one's favor when they're unreliable. June can come, or she can not. It doesn't matter. The Capitol'll kill her in the Games, or in the district, or wherever."

I don't respond.

.

The girls are chosen first. I recognize the first. She's the one Genevieve likes talking about. Kaila Espin, savior of the Scavengers. Genevieve doesn't think that highly of her. Then again, she doesn't think highly of many people. They're too selfish, they're too selfless, they're suicidal, they're annoying, they have no hope in life, et cetera.

I don't know the others. Two of them are older than me, but there's a skinny Scavenger who's eight, three years younger. I wonder how far she'll go. She seems sly, but not at all physically strong.

Then, the boys. The first is a seven-year-old from one of the better-off sectors. C, if not A. I don't recognize him. But I do recognize the Male B.

Cade Spyloft. Eighteen-year-old bully. He's never bothered me, probably because I'm from A, like him. But he torments the Scavengers. I don't like him much. He really might win these Games. I now feel quite a lot sorrier for the other tributes.

But everything's going pretty well for me until Puara chooses the third boy.

"Male C, Male C," she muses, "who will you be? I wonder...don't all of you?" The audience is silent. "Ah you're boring." She winks. "But I'm sure our Male C won't be..."

She stalks over to the bowl and whips out a slip.

"Who will it be?" She shoots us a devilish grin. "Maybe...Quentin Landsman?"

She's joking. She has to have pulled that name out of memory, or someplace other than the white slip of paper pinned between two of her manicured nails. She can't have read my name. No, no, no.

"Well, odd as it is, Male C _is_ Quentin Landsman." Puara stares at the boys' side of the square. "Where is he? Male C? Where is our Quentin Landsman? Come up, Quentin."

I stare up at her, speechless. Me. I look at Genevieve, horrified. _Me_. It was me. Somehow, some cruel twist of fate drew her hand to the slip bearing my name.

Genevieve was right. The odds are not in my favor. And if I am truly going into the Games, my odds are despicable. I wonder how long I'll last. How long it'll be before my heart stops beating. Before the blood is drained from my body. Before the Capitol wins out against me.

I see myself dying. My dead body appears in my mind's eye, and I can't get the image out. I wonder if I'm crying. I'm paralyzed, and I can't tell. I tell my legs to move, to carry my body to the stage, but they don't obey.

Then, the Peacekeepers come for me. They pick me up and carry me to the stage. I'm wide-eyed and trembling when they dump me at Puara's feet. She hoists me up, and shakes my hand.

I look at the other tributes, at Cade in particular. And I think, _I'm so dead_.

* * *

_District 8 Male D: Rayon Velour's POV: _

I wake up to the gentle hum of the sewing machine. I lay in bed for a moment, reluctant to wake up and face the day. I try to not think of the two huge glass balls, one of which holds five slips of paper with my name written on it. I try not to think of the reaping.

Instead, I try to envision my father who's downstairs, probably repairing some suit. It's his job; he runs a rather successful tailoring business. It's not the main tailoring business, talking the entire district, but it's the main one in Sector B.

We could live in Sector C, possibly even in A. We're wealthier than many people in the district, thanks to my dad's business. But both my parents grew up in B. It's where they met. Father doesn't want to move. I think he stays mostly because of the memories.

Memories primarily of my golden mother, Chenille Velour. She contracted rubella when she was pregnant with me, and she died in childbirth. Father says it's what caused my blindness. Basically, the sickness led to two things: my mother's death, and my blindness.

Yeah, I'm blind. But I've been blind since birth, and I'm used to it. Some people wonder how I get around the district so easily. I know the place like the back of my hand. Maybe more than most people my age, because others can rely on seeing their surroundings. Signs and stuff. But I know where to turn, where the park is, how many blocks it is from my house to school, approximately how many steps it takes to walk the entire length of my street, et cetera.

Then, the comfortingly familiar sound of the sewing machine ceases. A feeling of unease comes over me, for the first time in months. Um, no. Since yesterday. The reaping has managed to uncover the stress and worry that I'd once hoped was only for the poorest people. Even most of the other people in my sector.

_You've only got five entries_, I remind myself, as I always do when the reaping comes to my mind and I can't push it out. _You're nine years old, and you've taken no tesserae, so you've only got five entries. You're as safe as a nine-year-old can get this year. The odds are in your favor. Potential Sector A's almost never get reaped. And you're a potential Sector A. You'll be fine_.

I manage to convince myself, and I try to smile. I take deep breaths, and I try to envision my mother's face, as father always describes her. Light brown/sandy blond hair like mine, curly, falling loose around her shoulders. And brown eyes like mine, except mine are clouded, I'm told.

So I'm blind. Whatever.

There's a knock on my door. I sit up, throwing the blanket off me.

"Come in," I say.

There's a creak as the door opens.

"Good morning." My father's deep voice resonates throughout the room, washing over my ears, calming me. "Wakey wakey, sleepy head."

I frown. "How late is it?"

"You've got an hour until the reaping," Father answers. "Get dressed, and then come on to the kitchen from breakfast."

I perk up. "What's for breakfast?" I ask excitedly.

"Well, I spent the morning fixing up the latest suits in need of mending," Father says. "I didn't have the time to make anything, so we'll have cereal, okay?"

"Sure!" I grin, and jump out of bed. "I've only had District Eight Standard a million times in my life!"

"Hey, be happy we have food," Father says. "And anyways, I'm mixing fruit with mine, if you want to copy me."

"What kind of fruit?" I ask.

"Strawberries," he answers. "Not sure what district they're from. Maybe Eleven, but I hear they have some strawberry fields in...Five, is it? Nah, probably Eleven. But there are also a few raspberries."

"They have _fresh_ fruit in the Capitol," I say enviously. "They do, right? They keep them fresh until they hit the Capitol, and then they dry them for transportation to the districts?"

"Yup."

"Why can't they keep them fresh for us, too?"

Father struggles to find an answer. "Uh...too expensive? They don't think we're worthy? I don't know. I'm going to go get the cereal now. Aim to be at the table in five minutes or so. Can't be late to the reaping, remember?"

He leaves, and I bound over to the closet. I pull the doors open, and feel through my clothes, looking - ha ha_ - _for my thin cotton sweater. I find it quickly, and then pull out a t-shirt. Next, I pick out black pants.

I run a hand through my curly hair, so it'll looked like I semi-brushed it. Because I totally did. _Not_.

I go to the table, and find my seat. I plop down, and Father gives me a bowl. I grab a spoon and try to eat, but the bowl's empty. Father chuckles, and my bowl is replaced with another. I'm more cautious this time, when I pick up a spoonful, but this bowl is full.

My taste buds are delighted by the fruit, even toned down by the flavorless cereal. If dried, preserved fruit is this good, I wonder what real, fresh fruit tastes like. Wonderful, I imagine. Fruity and delicious... The Capitol is so lucky.

But they suck. They're cruel and heartless. They _suck_. End of story.

But still...

"Have you ever had fresh fruit?" I ask suddenly.

"You can't get fresh fruit out of the Capitol," Father answers. "I've never been to the Capitol. Apparently, they bring it to Capitol feasts in the districts, when that district wins the Games, but I was a wee little kid when we won the ninetieth."

"How old were you?" I ask.

"I was twenty-five when you were born. Do the math."

Math. I'm good at math.

"You were twenty-five the year of the ninety-first Hunger Games," I say slowly. "So you were twenty-four?"

"That's right," Father agrees. I can hear the smile in his voice. "I'd just gotten together with your mother. Beautiful woman..."

"But you _didn't_ get fresh fruit?" I ask, disappointed.

"Nope." He ruffles my hair. I can't see it coming, and I start. "Sorry. Only the mayor, the victor, and the most important people were invited to the feast. We were just two ordinary Sector B people."

"Too bad."

"Too bad," Father agrees. "You done, Rayon?"

"I'm done," I confirm. "I'm going to meet Corduroy."

"The singer?" Father laughs.

"Yeah," I say, grinning. "And he'll probably be singing some today, because all the girls will be there. I just hope he doesn't take to Gingham. She's mine."

There's a stunned silence. Finally, Father chokes, "You like _Gingham Jaquard_?"

"Um, yeah." I grin sheepishly. "You know her? The really smart one? The captain of the speed-weaving team?"

"The one with the long blond hair?" Father asks. "Um, assuming you - "

"Yeah, that's her," I say, smiling in spite of myself. "Lovely girl, hmm?"

"I didn't think nine-year-olds were fond of girls yet," Father says. "When _I_ was your age, I certainly wasn't. I was one of those immature regular dudes you see around."

"_See_ around?" I laugh.

"Um, sorry." Father chuckles. "I never said that, okay?"

"Okay." I shrug. "It doesn't matter to me."

"If you say so." Father clears his throat. "Well...at least you like a decent girl. Not one of those mean, inappropriate kids. Or not one from E, not because they're bad or anything, but because, well...I don't really want...never mind." Father laughs slightly. "Well, tell Gingham I say hi. She...she reminds me of your mother."

"_What_?" I can't help but laugh.

"So tell her I say hello, alright, Rayon?"

"Sure."

"Go on now."

I nod, and leave the room. I walk to the door and out on my shoes. I yell a good-bye, and then step outside and slam the door shut. I've traveled down these steps hundreds upon hundreds of times, and I don't remember the last time I've tripped. I know exactly where the two steps are, and I easily step down.

I shove my hands in my pockets and walk along the street. The sound of people talking grows louder, and I know I'm close to the square. And then I hear the singing.

Corduroy's actually pretty good, unlike many of the kids who sing to try to attract the opposite gender. Sure enough, he stops for air, and I here the squeals of many females. Enviously, I wonder if Gingham Jacquard is among them.

Corduroy finishes his song, and says, "Oy, Rayon! See ladies, there's my friend, Rayon! Blind man, but that don't stop him from recognizing good music when he hears it, eh?"

I grin and say, "Pretty good, Corduroy."

"See? He knows good music, and he don't need eyes for that!"

More squeals. I'm slightly embarrassed by Corduroy's antics, as I always am.

And then I hear the voice. "He _is_ pretty good."

It's murmured, just four words. But I freeze, my heart pounding as if I'm in the Hunger Games, and being approached by another, stronger tribute. I might as well be. Panic comes over me, and I try to subdue it. _It's just a district person_, I tell myself. _No threat. Safe. Calm down_. But I can't.

It's Gingham Jacquard.

"He's pretty good, right, Rayon?"

A wave of dizziness comes over me. She's talking to me. Talking to me! I struggle for something to say in response.

"Uhh...yeah, he is?"

"Maybe you should join him."

She was _talking_ to him.

"I, uh, no," I stammer. "Maybe...maybe you should sing."

Gingham laughs. "No, thanks."

"He's doing it for you, I bet."

The words just come out, but there's an awkward silence for a moment.

And then she says, "Really? I didn't know that. Well...goo luck today! Bye."

And then she's gone. Her dress swishes as she walks away. Corduroy's singing again, and I try to block out his voice and replace it with Gingham's. She'd been _talking_ to him.

Corduroy finishes the song, and he thanks his audience and walks over to me. I hear his voice and know he's coming. He pats me on the shoulder, and we walk to the square together.

"Hey, man," he says. "Saw you talking to Gingham. You two got something going?"

I'm sure I blush. "Uh, no. Not yet."

"Better get with her before someone else comes," he says.

"I needed to tell her hi from my dad," I blurt out, remembering suddenly.

"You can tell her tomorrow," Corduroy says. "Right now's the reaping. Come on, we'll be late."

.

I don't know the first three girls. They're all older than me, thirteen and fourteen. But the fourth girl's closer to my age. She's a Scavenger, just one year younger than I am. But Gingham's safe. Good.

The first boy is seven years old. I don't know him. There's almost a volunteer, but they're stopped. But they volunteer the next time, and I know this boy. It's Cade Spyloft, bully of Sector A. I shiver when he says his name. He's scary, terrifying, and he often teases me because I'm blind. But he might win this.

The third boy isn't me, either. He's an eleven-year-old who I don't think I've seen before.

But things are going pretty well for me. Until the Male D selection, that is.

"Male D!" Puara warbles. "Our magnificent Male D will be..."

Not me, not me, not me...if I'm reaped, I'll never see Father again, or Corduroy, or Gingham...see, I mean meet...not me...

"...Rayon Velour."

Terror hits me almost immediately. Anything between Gingham and me...not possible. I'll die, painfully, just another boy at the mercy of the Capitol...

But then I realize, I've got this! I might lose, but maybe I'll win. The odds will be in my favor, as they have always been, before today. I compose myself, and walk to the stage.

* * *

**A/N: Longest chapter ever! Setting my record at 19,157 words!**

**If my homework level stays the same, and I don't get any busier, I should be able to update sometime in the first half of November. But I'll probably get more and more homework as the year goes on. If I never ever update again, you can assume that I'm dead, or soon to be. Or you can blame high school. But that's not until next year. **

**I'll bet that there are quite a few typos in this chapter. I see them all the time, go back and fix them, save the changes, and the enxt time I check they're back the way they were before. Sorry about this. **

**My birthday's this week! Someday between this Saturday and next Saturday. Not going to specify. I'm turning thirteen. Hooray, I'll be a teenager...**

**So, please rank the tributes! It'll greatly improve your tribute's chances of survival. I didn't get nearly enough bloodbath sacrifices, so I'm currently composing a list of other tributes who'll die. I'm partly basing this off of who I think is reading, and I only know you're reading if you review. Judging off of the views, and the number of submittors, I think 100 reviews is a reasonable goal. Not 100 more...total. Right now we have 82. Let's see what happens.**


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